


Poison and Wine

by Slipstream7249



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Christine is a mess of complex feelings, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Leroux verse, Love/Hate, My First Work in This Fandom, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Poor Erik, Psychological Drama, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, inspired by the song Poison and Wine, some ALW references, some kay references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26762905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slipstream7249/pseuds/Slipstream7249
Summary: I turned the scorpion and promised to become his Living Wife.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 84
Kudos: 117





	1. Poison and Wine

**Author's Note:**

> The plot bunny for this story was born after watching a you tube video of Sierra Boggess and Ramin Karimloo singing the duet "Poison and Wine" by The Civil Wars. You can view the video of their performance here: https://youtu.be/SGF1xZwaH4A  
> I always thought that Ramin and Sierra created the best versions of Erik and Christine in the musical. This story however, is based solely on events in Leroux's book. This is my first fanfic for this fandom! Reviews are greatly appreciated! I do not own the lyrics to Poison and Wine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine deals with the aftermath of turning the scorpion.
> 
> Updated 1/26/21

I had turned the scorpion. I do not know how long ago I made that choice. It is an age-old belief that in life time moves quickly but down in the darkness of these cellars time is slow and endless. I peer at myself in the small hand mirror. The only mirror to exist here. I trace the lines of my reflection on its cool hard surface. My pale and hallow face stares back at me. I am to be the wife of darkness. It is fitting. Good.  
I emerge from my bedroom to find him perched on his organ bench. He is all hard lines and bones. He is too tall and too thin but what his body lacks in appearance it makes up for in his lithe movements. I quietly walk toward him, peering over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his long fingers as they caress the keys of the grand piano coaxing a dulcet melody from the instrument.

_Your hands can heal, your hands can bruise._

How can these hands that create the most beautiful music, a balm to my soul, be the same hands that have taken life? A shiver of fear runs through me but I remind myself he promised not to do _that_ anymore. The Opera Ghost is gone. People are safe. Raoul is safe. Dear sweet, loving Raoul! I wonder what he is doing right now. No! I must not think of him! I am to be Erik's living wife. _That_ was my promise. My thoughts are interrupted as the melody echoing from the piano ends abruptly. He can sense my presence. His hands lift up from the keyboard as he slowly turns on the bench to face me. Our eyes meet as he studies my face.

"Good morning my dear. Did you sleep well?"

_Your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine._

Oh, that sweet velvet voice, so hypnotic and alluring. It calls to me even now, after all that has past between us. It takes every ounce of strength I have not to succumb to it. I close my eyes briefly and shake my head slightly to regain my composure. This does not go unnoticed by my companion. He notices everything. A small smile plays across his malformed lips. I hate him for it.

"I did." The lie escapes from me easily but he is not fooled. His eyes narrow and I brace myself for the poison laced words that will surely flow from his mouth but they do not come. What follows is infinitely worse.

He drops his gaze and sighs disappointedly. "Lies do not become you my Christine. You cry in your sleep at night and I hate when you cry." There is resignation and sadness in his voice.

"How do you know this?" I ask incredulously. My chin held up in defiance. "Do you spy on me at night?"

_I know everything you don't want me to._

He is pained that I would question his propriety. "I have heard your soft cries through your door. I know you are unhappy here and that you still pine for that insufferable boy." His voice is laced with sorrow and resentment.

I could deny these accusations but that would be another lie and I am so tired of lying.

"I'm sorry. I will try to be better." I say this with as much conviction as I can muster.

I watch as my words cause his fingers to tighten into fists and he bangs them onto the keyboard letting a dissonant chord ring off the walls of his lair. Surprised I draw back in fear.

"You don't understand!" he roars. "I don't want you to be BETTER, I want you to be HAPPY!" Then he drops to the floor reaching for the hem of my dress the tears already flowing from his eyes as he yet again lays before me his immense love and I am lost.

"Oh Christine. Tell Erik what he must do to make you happy. Tell him what he must do to make you love him. He will do anything you ask of him!"  
Isn't this how we got here in the first place? His obsessive love for me and my inability to despise him for it? My resistance to leave when I should have left? Oh Raoul! Please forgive me, I should have let you spirit me away that very night!

_I don't have a choice but I still choose you._

What I want is my freedom and I know if I ask him for it now, he might grant it to me but that would likely kill him and I cannot think of him dead. No, that would not do. Instead I kneel down on the floor with him and gently remove his mask. He offers no resistance.

_I wish you'd hold me when I turn my back._

His tears have turned into sobs and he is trembling as I place a hand on either side of his death's head and draw his face to lie upon my breast. My arms encircle his thin form and I cradle him as a mother would her newborn babe. We have not been this intimate since the day I agreed to be his wife and allowed him to place a kiss on my forehead. Perhaps not touching since then was a mistake. Now I rock him gently and I hear his swift intake of breath as I begin to softly sing him a lullaby my father taught me. We stay like this until the sound of my voice fades away with the final verse of the song. Then, we disentangle from our embrace as his eyes meet mine. The complete adoration reflected in them leaves me breathless.

_You think your dreams are the same as mine._

"Teach me how to make you happy Christine." He begs me.

I answer him honestly. "I want to see the sun again."

He hangs his head in defeat. "You wish to leave me."

"No," I say and then again with more resolve "No, I do not wish to leave you."

He cocks his head to the side wondering if I am being truthful. I am not lying.

"I will not leave you but I cannot stay here. I wish to live above."

He shakes his head at me. "Someone such as me is not meant for a life above."

I look at him with a confused expression. "I thought you wanted to live like everyone else. To have a wife to go for walks with you on Sundays.""That, was nothing more than a dream." He says solemnly.

I do not believe that. I wont believe it, for if I am not a part of his dream then why am I here? He wanted a living wife!

"Oh Erik," I plead, "Don't you see, this is your chance to finally live a normal life."

"I cannot,” he argues, shaking his head vehemently. 

"Then if you will not do it for yourself, do it for me." He pauses for a moment and I can tell he is mulling it over in that genius head of his.  
"Will it make you very happy Christine?" There is so much hope in his voice that I am unable to disappoint him even if I had wanted to.

"Yes Erik, it would make me very happy."

"Then we will go live above."

A surge of pure joy rises through me and I feel the first genuine smile form on my face in many months. Erik's eyes widen at my expression and he grabs my hand and brings it up to his lips. "Oh Christine, if only I could see that smile upon your face every day, I would surely die a happy man."

_The less I give the more I get back._

It is in moments such as these, when I realize the awesome power I hold over this man. That a smile from me could bring him such elation, that the sound of my voice could inspire such music to flow from his hands, that a simple touch from me could cause his body to tremble. We are still kneeling on the floor and Erik raises a trembling hand to my face and lightly traces the edge of my jaw. "Christine, I love you."

It sounds like a whispered prayer and I take a deep breath closing my eyes as newly formed tears threaten to spill onto my cheeks. He hands me his heart and lays bare his soul and I am terrified. I think of my dear sweet Raoul again. The love he offered was easy, simple, _safe_. Erik's love burns with a ferocity that will undoubtedly consume me. I fear I will not know myself. He is looking at me now, eyes full of hope, waiting for a response to his confession. I press his palm to the side of my face.  
"I know you do Erik."

I pause then, not ready to admit that which I keep deep inside my heart.

_"I don't love you, but I always will."_

For now, it is enough.


	2. The Sea and the Shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine is torn between the sea and the shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was originally suppose to be a one shot, but so many people seemed to enjoy it that I decided to extend it. Also, paperandsong inspired me to write more by asking some interesting follow up questions. (Thank you again for the support!) I'm not exactly sure how many chapters this will turn out to be since much of the story is still in my head. What I can say, is that I have changed the rating to mature because those unwritten chapters will likely contain some sexual situations albeit nothing too graphic. Reviews are greatly appreciated!

There are some days I awaken from a dream convinced that my father is still alive. It takes me a few moments to remember that he is gone even as the image of his face lingers in my mind. On these mornings, I find myself inextricably drawn to the underground lake. I will often sit near the shore line and listen to the gentle lapping of the water against the rocks. As I stare out into this sea of blackness, I am instantly transported back to the rocky shores of Perro-Guirec. I can almost taste the salt water on my lips and feel the cool ocean breeze caress my skin. 

The image of my father returns. He smiles as he plays his violin. He is carefree and happy and I hear his voice filled with amusement as he gently commands “Sing, Little Lotte.” 

A curly head little girl appears before me, her eyes dancing with excitement as she twirls to the music coming from his violin. “Of course, Papa,” she squeals in delight, but just as she is about to open her mouth to sing, a gust of wind passes through, carrying the red scarf tied around her neck into the sea. She tries to go after it but the current is too strong and she is not a very good swimmer. She turns back to the shore to look for her father but he is gone.

In his place, is a handsome young boy. “Do not fret,” he calls to the girl. “I shall fetch your scarf!” He runs into the sea after it. Older and stronger he retrieves the scarf quickly and returns to the shore just as the current shifts overpowering the girl. She is swept away as the boy looks on in horror, unable to save her.

The images slowly fade and I once again stare into the black void of my surroundings. I remove the red scarf from my dress pocket and run my fingertips along its soft fabric. The fringes are tattered and worn. I bring the scarf up to my face and inhale deeply. I’m hoping to catch the lingering scent of my father or perhaps that of the boy that once rescued it, but it smells damp and musty, a product of living five levels beneath the ground. Disappointed, a small sigh escapes my lips and I wipe a lone tear from my face. 

Just then, I’m aware of a looming presence behind me and I quickly return the scarf to my pocket. I do not turn around as the shadow draws closer. I can feel his eyes upon my back as he waits for me to acknowledge his presence. I will not. We stay like that for some time, locked in this odd impasse until he finally breaks the silence and a hidden smile of triumph plays across my lips. 

“My dear you should not sit so close to the shoreline. There are dangerous things that lurk beneath the depths of the water.”

He has peeked my interest enough that I turn to face him. He appears even taller from my position on the floor and I have to strain to see his face. He notices my struggle and immediately crotches down so that we are eye level. He is inches from me now, the white of his full mask glows brighter as it reflects the light of his lantern.

“What sorts of things,” I whisper. His closeness is making me uncomfortable but it is not entirely unpleasant. I wonder briefly if he is aware of how deeply his presence affects me. I pray he never knows.

“Terrible things,” he whispers back and a shiver runs through me at the sound of his voice. 

“There is a jealous siren that lives in these depths that could carry you off, and then where would we be?”

His tone is filled with a dangerous giddiness and I unconsciously worry my lip. Immediately, his eyes fall to my mouth and he stares longingly as he releases a soft moan. I pretend not to notice. He clears his throat to regain his composure and swiftly stands as he reaches out a gloved hand toward me.

“Come,” he commands softly. “I have brought back gifts for you.”

I arise from the floor but I do not take his hand. He turns from me quickly, and reaches for the lantern, his cape floating in the air as I dutifully follow from behind. When we reach his house, he leads me into the drawing room where two large boxes rest on a table.

“For you my dear,” he says excitedly, his yellow eyes dancing in the dim light.

Erik always brings me presents when he returns from above. I should be grateful but I find it unnerving. Partly because he thinks he can win my love by lavishing me with expensive gifts. The other reason, I do not like to admit even to myself. I cautiously approach the boxes as Erik looks on in eager anticipation. I open the first one to find a brightly colored sundress made of the finest material, while the other contains a silken bathrobe. My fingers run the length of each item slowly taking in the softness of the material and the intricate designs. They are each absolutely stunning and exactly what I would have purchased for myself. I feel resentment welling up in the pit of my stomach as I once again must acknowledge defeat. I want to hate the dresses. I want to tear them apart so I will never know the pleasure of wearing them. 

“Thank you,” I say softly feigning an air of indifference. If Erik is disappointed by my lackluster response he does not show it. I pick up the boxes and as I turn to retire to my room he calls me back.

“I have one more gift for you. I think you may like this one better.” He is smiling slightly and he looks at me expectantly. 

“Erik,” I say somewhat exasperated. “Have you not given me enough already?”

He dismisses my concern with a wave of his hand and in the next moment he is holding a paper scroll. He quickly undoes the knot and unravels it across the table. I walk back toward him with interest, my eyes trained on the paper. Erik takes a step back to observe my reaction but I am unsure of what I’m looking at. He senses my confusion and gestures toward the paper.

“This is the layout for a plot of land that I now own.”

“Land,” I ask still confused. 

“Was it not your wish to live above?”

Realization dawns on me quickly. “Yes of course,” I say excitedly, “But you have not mentioned that in several weeks, so I assumed you had decided against it.” 

He shakes his head and clicks his tongue at me. “Assumptions are dangerous things, my Christine.”

He walks forward then and stops when he is inches away from me. I grip the boxes tighter and gaze down at the floor. Then I feel the light touch of his glove as it traces the side of my face and he lifts my chin upward till our eyes meet. 

“For example,” he whispers, “What would happen if I assume you love me?”

Suddenly I am trembling, but from anger or fear I cannot tell. 

He narrows his eyes at me slightly and his voice has taken on a menacing tone. “You are silent Christine. Will you not admit that it is not I whom you love but rather that boy who saved your precious scarf? The very scarf you try to hide from me?" 

I'm still shaking as hot angry tears begin to well up in my eyes. "Why must you ask these questions of me? Why must you be so cruel?"

"So that you might understand the danger my dear. Assumptions can make a man go quite mad. I find it best not to indulge in them.”

He turns and walks back to the table to stare at the paper, his hands balled into fists. I know he has been trying to control his temper for my sake but I fear it is only a matter of time until he loses himself again. He desperately wants what he cannot have. I am not sure how much longer we can coexist in this manner before we both go mad. I angrily wipe away the tears that have fallen onto my face.

He places his palms against the table top and leans over taking a few deep breaths. When he speaks again, his voice is soft yet desperate. “I still wish to make you happy Christine. You asked me for the sun and I shall give it to you but I need time to plan.”

“I understand,” not really sure what else to say. My heart is filled with so many conflicting emotions while my head is reeling with the thought of finally being able to take in fresh air and sunlight. I peer at the paper again wondering if it includes a drawing of a house. 

As if reading my mind, he quickly interjects, “Do not worry my Christine, the construction of the house will begin soon enough. I shall start working on the architectural drafts at once.”

At this statement, I raise my head in surprise. “Your designing the house,” I inquire, arching my eyebrow at him. 

A low chuckle escapes his lips. I have never heard him make that sound before. I hate that I like it.

“Surely my dear, you do realize that music is not my only passion. I may be hideous but I enjoy creating beautiful things.”

I try not to stare at him in wonder at this new revelation. I know he is brilliant, and I know that if fate had been kinder to him he would have been able to share his genius with the world. Instead, he contents himself with living in a cellar and shares his brilliance only with me.

“Will you show me your designs when you are finished,” I ask hopeful. 

“If you’d like."

He turns to me then, his pleading eyes asking for forgiveness. "I will construct a house worthy of you, my Christine. I can promise you that.”

I nod and give him a small smile, accepting his olive branch. I can tell this pleases him. 

I return to my bedroom and remove my new clothes from their boxes to hang them in my closet with the rest of the things Erik has purchased for me. I think about the house Erik is building for _us_ and I know without seeing it that I will love it, just as I have loved everything he has ever given me. This realization unsettles me and I fear for my soul. Instinctively, I reach back into my pocket and I pull out my red scarf again. I grab hold of the material and bring it up to my face to catch my tears. This old scarf is the only thing that keeps me tethered to the shore, for without it, I’m certain I would let the sea swallow me whole.


	3. The Red Scarf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine seems to have misplaced something. 🤔

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Description of a panic attack

Sometimes I lie awake in my bed plagued by dark thoughts. In these moments, I curse Erik, Raoul and even my dear Mamma Valerius, but most of all I curse myself. Erik may have chained me with his love but it was my naivety that allowed it. I was so tired of being alone, that when the Voice finally spoke to me, I was overjoyed. It was so beautiful and alluring as it filled my head with its strange, sweet music. We were such great friends, the Voice and I! Through its tutelage, my own voice gained an unearthly power that left me in ecstasy. I would have been content to spend the rest of my days serving the Voice, whom I had convinced myself was the Angel of Music, sent to me by my dead father. 

I sit up in bed, a swell of anger rising in the pit of my stomach. I pick up my hair brush from my nightstand and fling it at the wall in frustration. “You are a fool Christine,” I shout to no one. 

Suddenly, I begin to feel the walls of my room close in on me and a tightness grips my chest making it difficult to breathe. I have this strange sensation that I am detached from my body, as if in a dream. An overwhelming sense of dread consumes me and I fear I will die. I leap from my bed, feeling completely out of control. I need something to anchor me, something tangible to help restore my sanity. I pull open the doors to my closet in a frenzy. I find the dress I wore just hours before and dig my hand into the pocket that holds my precious scarf but I come away empty handed. I let out a cry of frustration as I begin to retrace my steps, trying to recall where I might have misplaced it. I make my way around the room, looking through all of my draws, my chest heaving, tears streaming down my face, when a thought stops me dead in my tracks. I did not misplace my scarf! 

With this thought, my panic is replaced by a blood boiling rage. I fling open my door and march through the drawing room with one destination in mind. I find him standing in his bedroom, his back to me, holding what I assume are the designs for the new house in his hands. I’m trembling with anger as I call his name, my voice as cold as ice. He turns around to face me and just as I’m about to overwhelm him with verbal abuse, I see his eyes go wide and the papers he is holding slip from his hands and float to the floor. He is staring at me hungrily and his breathing is ragged. I am momentarily confused by his reaction until I realize that in my haste to confront him over the whereabouts of my scarf, I had left my room wearing nothing more than a sheer nightdress with my hair hanging down wild and free about my shoulders. My cheeks flush with embarrassment and my anger is momentarily tempered as a new, more urgent threat presents itself.

I am acutely aware that Erik is a man and while he has never given me a reason to question his propriety, I did agree to be his wife. We never actually exchanged vows, but that may not matter to him at the moment. I watch as he tries to look away from me but his eyes betray him as they keep returning to roam slowly over my body. Somehow, I do not find the knowledge that he desires me repulsive, rather I find that I like it entirely too much. It makes me feel powerful and I briefly wonder if this was how Eve felt when she tempted Adam with the forbidden fruit. I immediately reproach myself for such sinuous thoughts. I must be going mad! I turn my attention back to Erik who is anxiously shifting from one foot to the other.

“Chris—tine,” he draws out my name in a sensuous whisper that leaves goosebumps on my flesh. He takes a step towards me but stops when he notices I’ve taken a step back. 

“Is there something you want, Christine?” His yellow eyes are boring into mine and I’m unable to have a coherent thought. I’m no longer sure who is in control anymore. I need to get back to the safety of my room. I shake my head to try to regain my composure as I think of an excuse. 

“Sorry for disturbing you, Erik. I just needed to fetch some water. My throat feels dry.” I say nervously, as I continue to walk backwards toward the door. 

This time he takes a full step towards me even as I retreat. He waves one of his bony index fingers back and forth in the air as he shakes his head. His voice is low and hypnotic as he gently chastises me, “I did not ask you what you needed Christine, I asked you what you wanted.”

I wring my hands together as I stare at the floor. “Erik, must you dissect everything I say?”

“Forgive me my dear, I am attempting to avoid any misunderstandings between us.”

From the corner of my eye, I notice he is even closer than he was before. One of his hands grips the side of his pants leg tightly. I want to turn and leave but my legs refuse to cooperate. This is dangerous territory for both of us. 

“Come,” he says, his voice like honey. “Let us go to the kitchen so I may fetch you some water.” 

I’m about to object, but his eyes narrow as he gestures for me to lead us out of the room. “Go on my dear, I insist.”

I have no choice but to obey. 

Once we reach the kitchen, I take a seat at the table. I watch as Erik’s long fingers wrap around the pitcher as he pours the water into the glass. I feel an unnatural warmth bloom underneath my skin that makes me nervous and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Erik gently places the glass onto the table as he sits opposite me. We stare at each other for several seconds. Then, I reach for the glass, our eyes still locked together, as I bring it up to my lips and drink deeply. I watch as Erik’s eyes slowly follow the path the water takes as it slides down my throat and I hear his slight intake of breath. His reaction makes me lightheaded and I again wonder if I am going mad.

The spell is broken when he addresses me in a serious tone, “Now my dear, why don’t you tell me what you really want.”

I remain silent, not knowing if I’m in the right frame of mind to deal with where this conversation is likely headed.

“Come now Christine, there can be no secrets between us. Tell your Erik what you truly desire.”

I do not like the implications of his words and I feel my anger from before returning and it gives me courage. 

“Where is my red scarf, Erik?”

If he is surprised by my question, he does not show it. He sits back in his chair as he slowly taps the tips of his fingers together, contemplating his answer.

“And what makes you think I would know where your precious scarf is?” he asks sarcastically.

I slam my fist down hard on the table top. “Enough,” I cry out. “Enough of these games, Erik! I know you’ve taken it!”

To my utter chagrin, he remains completely calm in the face of these accusations.

“Christine, you know how careless you can sometimes be. Perhaps, dear child, this can serve as a lesson for you to take better care of your personal effects in the future.”

“How dare you patronize me!” I exclaim loudly. “After everything you have done. Have you not taken enough from me already?” 

This strikes a chord with him and he leaps from the chair knocking it to the ground in the process. His eyes are wild as poison laced words drip from his mouth.

“I have taken nothing from you that you were not already willing to give! You had a choice Christine! You could have chosen the grasshopper, it jumps jolly high! It would have ended everyone’s suffering, but instead you chose the scorpion. An insidious creature that will strike when you least expect it. I can assure you, its venom is quite potent.”

I look at him in disbelief, as unshed tears blur my vision. “How can you say such things to me? Sometimes, I wonder if you really love me at all or if I’m just another one of your precious projects, nothing more than a voice to mold and put on display to validate your worth.”

The next thing I know he is leaning over me pinning me to my chair. When he speaks, I feel his breath on my face, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Never, question my love for you again.” He is trembling now but from hurt or anger I cannot tell.

For a moment neither of us move and the only sound that can be heard is that of our shared breaths. Then, I notice his eyes glistening with tears and I look away unable to bear the intensity of his pain.

“Oh Christine, if you would just love me, I would be so good! I would be as gentle as a lamb!”

My tears fall freely now as I keep my head turned away from him. “Erik,” I whimper softly, willing him to understand, “Your actions make that very difficult.”

“LIES!” He roars and I flinch in my chair.

“I could lay the world at your feet Christine, and still your heart would long for that boy.”

“But,” He pauses for a moment, as his hand hovers close to my face.

“That boy doesn’t really know you, does he, my dear?”

His lips come dangerously close to mine as he whispers a hidden truth. 

“I alone own your soul, Christine.”

I remain silent and unmoving in my chair fearing not only that he might kiss me but that I might allow it. I need to end this now before I am completely lost. Without thinking, I rip the mask from his face.

He is momentarily stunned by my action as he steps away from me, hiding his face in his hands. Then a low maniacal laughter surrounds me from all sides and I am filled with horror. I bolt from my chair and run as fast as I can toward my bedroom, convinced that he is following me, but as I go to shut my door, I catch a glimpse of him standing exactly where I left him, his yellow eyes upon me, the sound of the evil laugh echoing in my ears, as his mouth remains closed and unmoving. I lock the door knowing full well that if Erik wants to enter my room, Erik will enter my room. Safety, like everything else down here is just another one of his illusions.

I am shaking uncontrollably now as I let my body slide down the length of the door onto the floor. I stay that way for hours, staring at the opposite wall, too frightened and exhausted to move, until I hear the faint sound of a violin playing outside my room. It’s a song I’ve heard before and I close my eyes as I let the sweet melody wash over me. Then, as the final notes fade away, I hear someone softly call my name. 

It is the Voice!

“My child, do not be frightened, for your angel is here. He has cast out the demon.”

I sit up onto my knees and place my palms against the cool surface of the door as new tears stream down my face.

“Angel,” I cry out, “How I’ve missed you! Why do you leave me with that hateful creature?”

I hear a strangled sob come from the other side of the door. The Voice is crying too. 

“Forgive me Christine! Forgive your Angel! He wishes only to love you!”

I grant my Angel absolution and I hear him breathe a sigh of relief.

“Tell me, my child, how might the Angel convey his gratitude for your mercy?”

“Sing for me,” I plead softly through the door.

The next thing I hear is the Angel’s voice surrounding me like a warm blanket and I no longer care about the state of my mind or the whereabouts of my red scarf. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needless to say this story has taken on a life of its own. I have several more chapters planned. I would love to hear your thoughts....is it too angsty? Not angsty enough? Reviews are greatly appreciated!


	4. Truths and Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine makes some serious accusations.

In the weeks since our last volatile encounter, it seems as though Erik and I have slipped into a routine of sorts. He has become increasingly consumed with the construction of the new home. He spends hours at the building site, keeping a close watch on the progress of the workers he has hired to carry out his vision. Upon his return, he locks himself away in his room, as he continues to obsess over the design details. I, on the other hand, am left to wander through the underground house each day, alone. I no longer desire to sit by the lake, as I find the memories too painful to bare. Instead, I spend most of my time in the drawing room where I recline by the fireplace and stare into the flames as they dance about the hearth. It pleases me to watch the dazzling array of shapes and colors that spew forth from the fiery embers and I wonder if perhaps hell isn’t such a bad place after all. During these moments, I try not to dwell on the loneliness I feel or the myriad of other emotions swirling deep inside me, for fear that I might do something reckless. Instead, I take comfort in the monotony of my life and wonder how long it will last. On occasion, I let my thoughts turn hopeful, as I think of the day when I can finally leave this lifeless cellar behind but then I’m reminded that where I live is irrelevant, as _death_ has bound me tightly to him and my liberty is just another well crafted illusion. For a time, I had deceived myself into believing that Erik would release me if I asked it of him, but now I realize my mistake. He could no more let me go than he could go without oxygen. The knowledge that I am his very breath is too overwhelming to contemplate.

This last thought makes me agitated and I swiftly stand from my chair and pace the floor. His words about owning my soul still haunt me and I resent the idea that fate would gift me a madman as my soulmate. I let out a sigh of frustration and close my eyes as I attempt to conjure an image of the one I would choose to own my soul. A man I have loved since I was fifteen years old. I see him clearly in my mind’s eye as he smiles at me warmly, his thick golden hair and bright blue eyes shining in the sunlight. For a fleeting moment, a sense of peace washes over me but then the image changes and in its place, I see two bright yellow, pleading eyes. Suddenly, I can’t breathe, as an indescribable emotion takes hold of me. My eyes fly open and I shake my head as I try to rid myself of the unwanted image. I decide I need to refocus my attention onto something more productive.

Not for the first time, I make my way to Erik’s room. I have been here before, while he is gone, searching for the red scarf he thinks I forgot about. Sneaking around Erik’s private things is not without its risks. He is highly perceptive, so I need to make sure everything is put back into its rightful place before his return. I have already checked the piano bench and several of his bookshelves without success. Today I decide to inspect his desk. There are papers strewn about, some of which contain unfinished musical compositions while others are random drawings. One of the drawings catches my eye. It’s a portrait of a young woman, clothed in a silken gown, the color of sapphire, her long chestnut hair hangs down in ringlets about her neck. The details of the image showcase her exquisite beauty but what I find most striking is her expression. The eyes starting back at me are devoid of all warmth and instead are filled with such disdain and horror that I suddenly feel very exposed and uncomfortable. It is only then that I hear a voice whispering softly behind me and my blood runs cold as I realize I’m no longer alone.

“I see you still have not let go of your curious nature, my Christine. Was the thrill of unmasking me all those months ago not enough for you?”

The drawing falls from my hands to float back onto the desk and I swiftly turn around to see him leaning heavily against the door frame. I brush away the wrinkles of my dress as I try to collect my thoughts and explain my actions.

“I’m sorry Erik, I just thought I could make myself useful by helping to-”

He waves his hand in the air to silence me.

“Spare me your excuses dear child, I find them exceedingly irritating.”

I accept defeat and remain silent.

He pushes himself from the door frame with a slight grunt and walks towards me and I notice his gait seems less graceful than usual. All too soon he is standing in front of me. I take a nervous step back and feel the hard edges of the desk press into my upper thighs. I hear Erik let out a deep sigh as he shakes his head solemnly. 

“Why do you still fear me Christine?”

“I’m not sure what you want Erik,” I say quietly.

“I simply wish to reach my desk and you are currently blocking my path.”

My cheeks flush with embarrassment as I step aside.

He picks up the image of the woman and I can tell by the shape of his eyes and lips he is amused.

“Is this what you were looking for my Christine?”

I ignore his question. “Who is she,” I ask curiously.

I see his body tense and for a moment he looks uncomfortable but then his amusement returns as he asks in a melodic voice, “Are you jealous my dear?”

I’m about to deny these accusations when I notice the bedroom floor is covered in red track marks that were not there before. Fear takes hold of me and I begin to tremble. 

Erik follows my eyes to the floor and then looks at his shoes.

“Oh, excuse me, it appears I have made quite a mess.”

“Erik is that,” I pause, trying to summon what little courage I have left. “Blood,” I whisper faintly.

“Ah, yes, a most unfortunate accident.”

I begin to back away slowly from the desk toward the door.

“Oh my God, Erik, what have you done?”

He cocks his head at me, as if he is confused by my question. This only intensifies my fear, and I feel a surge of pure panic well up inside of me. I pull at my hair as I scream at him, “You promised me, you promised you would not harm anyone again!”

He puts up his hands in surrender. “Chris-tine,” his voice is soft and warm and it makes my head feel fuzzy like I’ve had too much wine. “You must calm down. Your Erik has not harmed anyone. It was simply an accident.”

“An accident,” I hear myself repeat as if my mind is separate from my body. My limbs suddenly feel very heavy.

“Yes, my dear. Why don’t you go to your room and lie down awhile. You look terribly tired. Erik will take care of everything here.”

My mind wants to blindly obey but my feet refuse to move. Somewhere deep in my subconscious I know what he is trying to do and I refuse to let that voice control me any longer.

“No!” I say forcefully finding a strength I didn’t know I possessed. “I am not tired and I will no longer be a pawn in your games of manipulation. Tell me what you have done!”

“My, my, we are so strong willed today. I must admit, I am rather impressed, my dear.”

“Erik,” I raise my voice in warning.

“You seem intent that I acknowledge my guilt in some crime I did not commit.”

“Erik you promised me,” I say pleadingly. I am so close to tears.

This last statement fuels his anger as he beats his chest with his balled fist, and cries out in a thunderous voice, “and I have kept that promise! You on the other hand, promised to be my living wife but Christine is nothing more than a scared little child who pines for the things she does not need!”

The knowledge that Erik thinks I’m childish wounds me deeply but I try not to show it. 

Instead, I respond to his statement with an air of defiance. “Do not presume to know what I need.”

An uncomfortable quiet descends upon the room as we stare angrily at each other. Surprisingly, Erik is the first to relent.

“I assure you Christine, no one but myself and Cesar were harmed.”

“Cesar?” I ask confused.

He nods. “A riding accident.”

I think on this for a moment. It might explain Erik’s sudden unnatural gait.

“Where did all this blood come from then” I ask, still somewhat skeptical of his truthfulness. 

“Cesar was injured.”

I continue to stare at him incredulously.

“Christine, there was no murder. I swear it. Besides, if I were to engage in such activities, I prefer the use of the Punjab Lasso. It is quite an effective weapon and much less,” he pauses to survey the floor, “Messy.”

When I do not immediately respond he looks back up at me.

“Why my dear, you are as white as a ghost.”

“How can you be so caviler about murder,” I ask, thoroughly disturbed by his lack of empathy.

He shrugs, “Someone as hideous as this was destined for hell from the beginning.”

I shake my head in disappointment. “You could be so much more Erik.” I say softly.

He gives a sarcastic chuckle. “You and the Daroga, always so convinced that I have something special to offer this world.”

He comes closer to me then, as he whispers in my ear, his voice laced with barely suppressed hostility, “But here is a little secret my Christine, no one has ever wanted anything I had to offer, least of all you.”

He starts to walk past me but I reach out to him and gently place my hand on his upper arm to stop his movement. His body goes rigid at my touch as his eyes gaze in disbelief at my hand on his arm. I do not dwell on his reaction to my hand, too focused on what I need to say to him.

“You are wrong you know. Your music is everything to me.”

He looks at me then. The sadness evident in his voice. “You may accept my music but I know you will never accept my heart.”

And with that he walks quickly out of the room knowing full well I will not reply. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next.....More angst, a lot more tears and (dare I say) a small bit of e/c fluff 😲
> 
> Reviews are greatly appreciated!


	5. Nature and Nurture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Empathy is about finding echoes of another person in yourself." ~Mohsin Hamid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up where chapter 4 left off.

I wait several minutes before I follow Erik out of the room, hoping to avoid another confrontation. I resume my place beside the fire as I listen to the sound of him moving about the kitchen. I hear him make a few loud grunts as if in pain, and I remember that Cesar was not the only victim in that accident. I walk gingerly toward the kitchen and find him preparing a basket of supplies. He senses my presence and addresses me before I can even ask my question.

“I need to tend to Cesar’s injury. I could use your help if you wouldn’t mind accompanying me to the stables.”

“Of course,” I reply quickly.

It has been weeks since I have left these tunnels and I ache for some fresh air. I don my blue cloak and soon we are traversing the underground labyrinth that will lead us to the world above. I follow closely behind Erik and I notice him wince several times. 

“Erik, if you are in pain I can carry that basket for awhile.” 

He stops for a moment to look back at me, surprised by my offer. “It is nothing, my dear,” and we continue on in silence.

Soon we are standing outside the gate along the Rue Scribe entrance. It is a crisp fall evening and I inhale the fresh scent of newly fallen leaves and close my eyes as the wind gently caresses my skin. We quietly approach Cesar’s stable and I can see that some of the hay that lines the enclosure is caked with dry blood. Cesar seems skittish as we enter and he has a deep gash on his right hind leg. Erik moves in front of me and begins to speak softly to him in a language I do not understand. The animal immediately relaxes at the sound of Erik’s voice. Then Erik reaches out and gently runs his long boney hands over the horse’s mane. 

“Christine, there are apples in that basket. It would help if you could feed them to him one at a time as I check his injury for any broken bones.”

“Of course,” I reply as I move to retrieve the fruit.

I pick up an apple to give to Cesar as I watch Erik from the corner of my eye.

He sets to work quickly, assessing the injured leg as he hums a dulcet melody. I have never seen Erik behave quite like this before and I find his gentleness toward the animal endearing. 

“How did this happen,” I inquire, suddenly curious of the events that led to this accident.

“We were traveling back from the construction site when something spooked him and he took off. I was unable to calm him and he lost his footing. We both ended up on the ground. I tried my best to stabilize his injury until it could be tended to properly.”

Erik stands and dusts off the hay from his hands and pants. “It seems there are no broken bones. He will be fine.”

“I’m glad,” I say as I feed Cesar another apple and giggle as his tongue tickles my hand. Erik comes to stand closer to me and pats the horse’s side. 

“He is a beautiful creature is he not?” 

“Indeed, he is,” I reply as I touch the underside of Cesar’s chin.

“Have you ever owned a pet Christine?” He stares off into the distance as he asks me this, a mixture of fondness and sadness in his eyes.

“My father and I were constantly on the move and owning a pet was not possible.”

“That’s too bad. I believe animals are one of the world’s greatest gifts. They have a remarkable ability to ignore a person’s shortcomings and love anyway.”

His words affect me deeply and for the second time that night I feel a certain tenderness for him. 

“Christine,” he says gently and I raise my eyes to meet his.

He looks nervous as he lifts a trembling hand toward the side of my face. “Forgive me...” 

Then, before I can even respond, I feel the light touch of his fingers in my hair as he removes a piece of hay that is tangled in my curls. His hand lingers a bit longer than necessary but there is such longing in his eyes that I refuse to deny him this one indulgence. 

“Thank you,” I whisper as a pleasant warmth runs through me.

We make our way back to the underground house in silence but I can tell his pain from the accident has intensified. When we arrive back home, he excuses himself to his room, presumably to tend to his wounds, as I am left debating my next move. It has been a long day and I should just ready myself for bed, but that seems wrong somehow. Without thinking further on the matter, I find my legs have carried me to the threshold of his door. I enter, only to find he is not there. Then I hear him moving about in the bathroom. I call his name to announce my presence but when he responds there is panic in his voice. 

“Leave me Christine! This is not for you to see!”

I continue on despite his protestations. He is positioned by the sink having already removed his mask and discarded his coat and vest. There are stains of dark crimson on the back and side of his white shirt. 

“You are hurt.” I say softly. “Let me help you before you develop an infection.”

I approach him and his reaction is that of a frightened child. He backs away from me and crouches down into the farthest corner of the room, his arms held over his head hiding his face. 

“Erik will take care of his injuries. Christine must not see him.”

“Erik, I have already seen your face several times. You do not need to hide from me any longer.”

“You do not understand Christine, my body is not,” he pauses for breath as he sounds on the verge of tears, “It is not pleasant to look upon.”

I am confused by this at first but then I reason that perhaps his deformity extends beyond his face. 

“It does not matter what you look like Erik.” I try to assuage his fears even though I feel my own confidence wavering but I push away my insecurities and offer my assistance again. 

He remains silent for a time, thinking, and then slowly nods his head in consent. 

He rises from the corner and shuffles towards me, shoulders hunched over in defeat as he proceeds to perch himself on the edge of a small wooden hassock taken from his bedroom. I watch as he hesitates, then gradually begins to undo the buttons of his shirt. After what seems like an eternity, he reaches the last button and lets the garment fall to the floor as his eyes remain fixed on my face. The first thing I notice is the deathly pallor of his skin and the rigid framework of bones that are visible underneath. I try hard not to gasp in shock. 

“Horror, horror, horror,” he whispers as he hangs his head in shame.

I am not horrified but rather severely disturbed as I realize it is not a deformity that covers his body but scars. Raised, swollen, twisted pieces of flesh, too numerous to count, that serve as a reminder of the hatred the world has for those who are different. 

“How…” I struggle to form words and I feel that I may be sick.

“That hardly matters anymore Christine,” he says solemnly.

“But your parents, did they not…” I pause trying to find the right words but Erik grows impatient and I can see rage building within him.

“What was is it that you were about to ask, my dear? Hmmm? Did my parents not protect me, not care for me? Did they not LOVE me, Christine?”

And in one fluid motion he rises and grabs hold of the hassock flinging it into the wall with such force, it breaks into hundreds of pieces across the floor. I back up and lean against the door frightened. I want to run away and hide in my room but I cannot bare the thought of leaving him to be consumed by his rage. He turns from me then, his chest and back heaving as he falls to his knees in resignation. 

“Forgive me Christine. It seems all I ever do is frighten you.”

I walk cautiously towards him. “Tell me,” I beg. 

He lets a small sigh escape his lips. I can see his humiliation and self-loathing in the set of his shoulders and the grim expression on his face. 

“My father died before I was born,” he begins, then pauses, the memory too painful for him. 

“My mother, well, you have already seen her.”

I’m confused for a moment and then suddenly the image of the woman from the drawing with eyes devoid of love, is before me and everything about who Erik is suddenly becomes clear. In my most private of thoughts, I had often worried that Erik had been born evil, a soul claimed by Satan while still in his mother’s womb, but I now realize that his wickedness is a product of a cruel and hateful world. 

“My God Erik, what kind of life have you known,” I ask through my tears.

“Please Christine, I do not want your pity.” His voice is laced with contempt.

“Do not mistake pity for empathy Erik.”

He is looking at me strangely now, as if I am speaking a different language. 

“Empathy is about finding echoes of another person in yourself,” I explain carefully.

“Spare me your platitudes Christine. No one could ever understand what it is like to be Erik, nor should anyone ever want to.”

“That’s not true,” I cry out in desperation.

“Erik, when I look at you, I see the suffering you had to endure. I can feel your anger, your fear and your loneliness as if it were my own.” 

His eyes fill with a wondrous disbelief as I move to join him on the floor. Then, I carefully reach out and lay my hand on top of his. The contact causes him to shutter violently and he turns away unable to look at me but I do not remove my hand. It is time for me to put aside my childish fears and accept my reality. Perhaps through this kindness I might save his tortured soul. 

“I see you Erik, even if no one else ever has.”

I am unprepared for the cry that emanates from deep within him.

“Oh Christine,” he speaks through strangled sobs. “You are the greatest of gifts the world has ever known.”

His words overwhelm me and I have this sudden urge to hold him in my arms and never let go. Instead, I smile at him and squeeze his hand tighter. I may not be able to offer Erik everything he desires but I can provide friendship and comfort. He deserves that much at least. I hold his hand for awhile longer not wanting this moment of understanding between us to end. Then, I wordlessly help him tend to his injuries and take my leave.

A few hours later as I ready myself for bed, I hear a soft knock at my door. I put on my nightdress and open it to find Erik standing there in black silken trousers and a matching bathrobe, his mask firmly back in place. He seems nervous and unsure of himself.

“Is there something wrong Erik,” I ask, concern etched on my face.

“No, everything is fine,” he says shifting from one foot to the other.

“Are you ill,” I ask, still unconvinced. 

“No, No, Erik is quite well.” 

“Then what is it that you want?” A sense of unease wells up inside of me as I wait for him to reply.

“It’s just, I think you have something in your ear, my dear.”

“My ear,” I ask perplexed and a bit flustered. I don’t like when he speaks in riddles. 

“Erik what on Earth are you talking about?”

But then his empty hand comes up to quickly pass over the right side of my head and the next thing I know I’m holding my red scarf in my hands. 

“Ah, I see you have found your scarf.” His eyes are playful and a sly smile forms across his lips.

He has caught me completely off guard. “Erik how did you…”

He stands a bit closer and whispers softly in my ear, “A magician never reveals his secrets, my Christine.” 

His breath on the side of my face causes me to shiver slightly. Then, I look down at my scarf, and pull it close to my heart as I smile up at him through my tears. I should be livid that he stole it and lied about not having it but I’m too overcome with emotion to care at the moment.

“Thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

He nods. “Erik wants his Christine to be happy. She is very precious to him.” 

In his eyes, I see his apology, his thanks and his love for me in equal measure. Maybe there is hope for his soul after all.

We say our good nights and as I close my door and return to my bed, a sense of peace washes over me for the first time in many months. Perhaps I have been called by God to sacrifice my liberty and my love for Raoul to serve a higher purpose- to lead a wayward sheep back to the herd. I fancy myself a woman of the cloth, destined to live a life of service, as well as a chaste life, with no children of her own but with an important mission nonetheless. 

I look down at the scarf in my hands. I touch its frayed edges again, seeking a comfort from it I no longer seem to feel. Then, I bring it up to my nose and inhale deeply. Surprisingly, the moldy smell of the cellar is gone, replaced by a scent that is distinctly Erik’s and I suddenly have this perverse desire to feel the scarf pressed against my bare skin. Frightened, I open up my nightstand and hide the scarf away.

Then, I say a prayer of forgiveness for such an unholy thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this chapter for many reasons. As a teacher, I have had the great opportunity to teach AP Psychology the last ten years. Through these characters, I wanted to explore a central question that is woven throughout the course- is behavior shaped by our genes (nature) or through our experiences (nurture). I also wanted to explore the importance of empathy, or Erik's lack thereof. I would love to get your thoughts on how you felt about this chapter especially since I have never written anything like this before. 
> 
> I have the rest of the story planned out. There will be another six to seven chapters but it might be another two weeks before the next chapter update.
> 
> Up next...moving day for Erik and Christine and the calm before the storm!


	6. A New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions are high as Erik and Christine prepare to leave the underground lair for a new life above.

As the day that we are to leave the underground lair quickly approaches, I cannot contain my excitement. The walls of the cellar have become unbearably oppressive and hold nothing but painful memories for me. It will be good to finally feel the warmth of the sun on my face and to smell the fresh Paris air. Erik however does not share my sentiments. As moving day draws closer, he has become increasingly agitated as he mumbles to himself and then retreats to his room where he pounds out his frustrations onto those black and white keys creating a dark melody that reverberates off the walls plunging both our souls into despair.

It is this very music that awakens me on the morning of our departure. I rise and hurriedly dress, fighting the urge to huddle in a corner with my hands over my ears. I have every intention of going into his room to demand he stop playing that incessant tune but to my surprise the house suddenly grows quiet. When I finally emerge from my own bedroom, he is sitting in his usual spot at the table waiting for me. My breakfast, as always, is laid out in meticulous fashion. I can already sense his dour mood but I ignore it as I make my way into the kitchen, a warm smile spread across my face. Immediately I feel his eyes upon me, but he remains silent as I take a seat across from him.

“Good morning Erik,” I say cheerfully. “I trust you slept well?”

His expression changes beneath the mask and I can tell he is annoyed by my query.

“You know as well as anyone, I do not sleep Christine. There will be plenty of time for that when Erik is dead.”

I let out a frustrated sigh. “Must we start the day off with such dark thoughts?”

He leans back in his chair as he thinks on this for a moment.

“You are right of course. How insensitive of me. Let us begin again, shall we?”

He pauses for emphasis.

“Good morning, my dear. You are positively radiant today.”

His voice holds a dark undertone.

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

He leans over the table slightly as the tips of his fingers press into the edge of the wood, his eyelids narrowing behind the mask. His demeanor is that of a predator ready to strike. I had hoped that we had reached an understanding all those weeks ago when I had tended to his wounds but Erik’s mercurial nature should no longer surprise me. It is the reason we always seem to take one step forward and two steps back.

“In fact, I don’t think I have seen you this excited since the day you and that pretentious boy pretended to be engaged.”

Must he always bring up Raoul? I fear he spends more time thinking about him than I do. I ignore his last comment as I measure out some sugar for my tea and continue on happily.

“I’m simply excited to see the new house.”

“Yes, of course, but I wager not as excited as I imagine you must be to reenter the world above! It must have been quite tedious to have only Erik to talk to all these months. To have to look upon his hideous visage day after day with no escape. I am surprised you never made use of those scissors you were so fond of, to spare yourself the horrible fate of a life bound to one such as me.”

His words cut like a razor but I do not answer right away as I silently pray for patience and strength. I have learned that dealing with Erik is not unlike dealing with an unruly child having a temper tantrum. I calmly stir my tea and spread butter on my croissant as he shifts in his seat, agitated.

“Erik, what is this really about?”

He stands and swiftly turns his back toward me, his hands balled into fits at his sides. A temper tantrum indeed.

“There is a reason I have lived alone all these years Christine. I deplore most people. In fact, Erik finds most of them to be great boobies! A masked man should never be trusted they say. So, I have kept my secrets from them, but now, when we go to live above, my secrets will no longer be my own! And when Erik’s secrets cease being Erik’s secrets, very bad things usually follow!”

“Erik…” I say in a warning tone. “I realize the world has been terribly unkind to you but don’t you think it’s time to let go of some of your hate?”

“Christine please! My hatred is all I have ever had.”

I rise from my chair to stand behind him and gently place the palm of my hand on the center of his back. Immediately his muscles grow tense as if my touch is painful to him but I let my hand linger there for a moment.

“Things are different now.” I say gently. “You have me.”

He glances sideways then turns fully around studying my face and I immediately regret my choice of words.

“Do I, Christine? Do I really?”

The room suddenly feels much warmer and my throat feels dry.

“We are friends, are we not,” I ask nervously.

He moves closer to me as his lips curl into a smirk under the mask.

“Hmmm, is that what we are?”

I drop my gaze to study the hem of my dress. He smells of sandalwood and spice and I’m reminded of the scarf that I have not touched since the night he returned it to me. The scarf that had once been my anchor and my comfort now a symbol of a dark secret that I refuse to acknowledge. His scent is intoxicating though and I find myself leaning slightly toward him.

“I think we both know I want more than friendship Christine.”

I am focusing so intently on the pink spiral pattern of my dress I’m certain it’s afterimage will linger in my vision long after this moment has passed.

“Friendship is all I have to offer you,”I whisper gently.

“And yet I seem to recall you agreeing to be my wife.”

When I do not respond he grows impatient. “Look at me Christine,” he commands.

Obediently, I raise my head. He pins me with a cold stare, his voice curt and demanding.

“You will be my living wife as you promised and I will be your doting husband. You will live in the house that I built for you and you will be happy Christine and perhaps in time you will realize it is not such a wicked thing to love your Erik!”

How I want to hate him! He takes my liberty as if it were his God given right and leaves me no choice. He tells me what I should feel and manipulates me with his music but I cannot hate him! How can I, when he asks only to be loved?

“I am a living wife in name only. We have taken no vows.” I remind him carefully.

“A mere formality that will be easily remedied once we are settled in our new home.”

I feel a tightness in my chest as I fumble for a response. “Erik, I…”

He interrupts me with a wave of his hand as he begins speaking rapidly, his dour mood from before replaced with an excitement that leaves my head swirling in confusion as I try to keep up.

“Please do not concern yourself with the details, my dear, for it will all be taken care of. I have already written our nuptial mass. Oh, wait till you hear it Christine! I know you will love it! You were my inspiration after all, for you are the true angel of music! It has always been you Christine, not Erik.”

He is mad with love for me and I don’t know whether to be heartened or horrified.

“But enough of our future plans for now. I suppose we must focus on our inevitable departure from this place. Do not trouble yourself with your belongings as you will find suitable replacements waiting for you at the new house.”

“That was not necessary Erik.”

“It is already done my dear.”

I turn my attention to survey the room. “What about all your possessions? Will you leave them behind as well?”

“Do not worry dear child, there is only one thing here that is irreplaceable.”

“Your Don Juan Triumphant,” I say thinking out loud.

I turn to find him staring at me blankly.

“That could burn for all I care.”

I look at him confused. “I thought it was your life’s work, your masterpiece.”

He shakes his head and sighs. “When will you realize that the only thing that will ever matter to me in this life is you.”

Immediately my eyes fill with tears as his words evoke a myriad of emotions within me.

“Why do you cry Christine?”

“Your words, Erik, they are too much.”

“On the contrary, I find my words to be quite inadequate. But Erik will not speak of his feelings again if it pains you so. He does not like when you cry.”

As he says this he raises a hand and lightly runs the back of his fingers down my cheek to wipe away a stray tear. This catches me off guard as Erik rarely initiates any form of physical contact. As if realizing his unorthodox behavior, he immediately removes his hand, his eyes wide in panic. He quickly clears his throat and excuses himself to the drawing room, leaving me alone. I can still feel the ghost of his cold hand against my face and I try not to think too much about the warmth blooming in the pit of my stomach or the image of his hands moving across my naked form. It will be good to be out of this cellar soon and leave this madness behind.

Several hours later, we are standing outside the Rue Scribe entrance. It is a clear, brisk night and many stars illuminate the sky. I watch as Erik turns the key to lock the gate and I feel a small sense of freedom however delusional that may be. We walk to the front of the Opera House and Erik hails a hansom. I turn to take one last look at the place that has been my home for the past year. A part of me wants to curse myself for ever having stepped foot inside but then I decide to focus on the pleasant memories I made there instead. I think about Meg and Sorelli, little Jammes and Cecile. My gaze shifts to Apollo’s Lyre looming overhead and I am reminded of my first kiss with Raoul. How young and naïve we both were then. It almost seems a lifetime ago. I turn back to see Erik standing by the door to the hansom. Slowly he holds out his gloved hand toward me.

“Come to me Christine,” he says as his eyes dance with an unnatural light.

“Let, us go to our new home.”

I look back one last time at the Opera House and I realize there is no longer anything here for me. Any dreams I may have had, died that fateful night when I turned the scorpion. Raoul is gone, Meg is married to a wealthy Parisian, Sorelli left the Opera shortly after Philipe’s death and Mamma Valerius was recently reunited with Papa.

There is only Erik.

I turn back and step toward him. His eyes are so mesmerizing and I find the tenderness with which he looks at me comforting. I take a deep breath and willingly place my hand in his as I step up into the waiting carriage. Erik follows and settles in the seat across from me our eyes never breaking contact.

“You seem pensive my dear. What are you thinking about?”

“My time at the Opera.”

“And were these pleasant memories?”

“Some of them were.”

“Hmmm, and what was your fondest memory Christine? Was it the time you and the boy kissed on the rooftop or the time he came to your aid after the monster tried to kidnap you?”

“Why do you automatically assume that every thought I have is about Raoul?”

“You love him, do you not?”

When I don’t respond he continues.

“To love another is to be consumed by the thought of them every waking moment. To need them so desperately you cannot reason, cannot breathe, cannot live without them Christine.”

I feel my heart rate increase at his words, the longing in his eyes unmistakable.

“That sounds more like obsession than love Erik.”

“Then perhaps you do not love your Vicomte after all.”

“And perhaps you should not make assumptions about my thoughts and feelings. Did you not once tell me assumptions are dangerous?”

He does not respond and a wry smile plays across my lips.

“If you must know, I WAS thinking about Raoul as well as my time with the ballet company but ironically those are not my fondest memories.”

He eyes me curiously.

“Is that so? I dare say, you have peaked my interest.”

“My fondest memories are of the Voice.”

I can tell he is surprised by my revelation.

“When I first came to the Opera House I was lost. I missed my father dearly and I was lonely. The Voice was gentle, knowledgeable and a brilliant teacher. I looked forward to all my lessons with the Voice…” I pause, and start again. “I looked forward to all my lessons with YOU.”

“You flatter me Christine.”

“It is the truth.”

He leans back in his seat as he reclines his head against it, his face turned upward, his eyes closed beneath the mask. For so long I had considered him to be otherworldly but watching him now reminds me that Le Fantome de l’Opera is human just like the rest of us.

“You will never know what those lessons meant to me Christine. At first, I deluded myself into believing you were just another instrument for my music, but you became so much more.”

“Why did you hide from me all those months Erik? Why not reveal yourself from the beginning and save us both the pain and anguish that followed?”

“You know why my dear. Besides, what is done cannot be undone.”

“I suppose so.”

“But I do regret that I had to deceive you.”

That was as close to a verbal apology as I would likely ever get from him. I would have to accept it.

“You know Erik, it’s not too late. Perhaps if we stop fighting each other we can be like that again.”

“It is not Erik that fights against us Christine.”

I look down at my hands as I twist them together anxiously.

“You ask for so much Erik, way more than when you were simply the Voice. I fear there will be nothing left of me.”

His eyes bore into mine. “I will never be satisfied with anything less than everything from you, my Christine.”

“I know,” I reply solemnly, then turn from him to gaze out the window as the hansom carries us off to a new life I did not choose for myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you that might be confused by the mention of Christine having a pair of scissors, it is actually a reference to a scene in one of the many translated versions of Leroux's work. In that scene, Christine goes to take a bath, but she takes a pair of scissors with her with the intention of using them to kill herself if Erik tries to force himself on her. When I read about it, I wanted to work it into this story somehow. 
> 
> Next up, Erik and Christine adjust to life in their new home and then the world turns upside down for poor Christine. 🤐😬


	7. A House of Roses and Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik gives Christine a tour of their new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for flora-gray who convinced me that it was time to just bite the bullet and post some of what I had written for this chapter. Thank you!

Chapter 7: A House of Roses and Dreams

We travel the rest of the way to the new house in silence. I watch from the window as the rows of buildings are replaced with a vast expanse of open country outlined by densely packed trees. Some hang low, casting eerie shadows in the moonlight. Any faith I had that this new life above might liberate me from the dark and endless days of the Opera cellars begins to fade as the hansom travels deeper into this wooden abyss. I shift nervously in my seat, as the carriage reaches a part of the road devoid of all light and the only thing I can see are Erik’s bright golden eyes staring at me.

“Do not worry my Christine, for sometimes out of the darkness something beautiful is born.”

No sooner are the words out of his lips, the interior of the hansom is illuminated by the silver light of the moon. There is no overgrowth of trees here, rather we make our way down a wide gravel road lined on either side with well-manicured bushes. The carriage continues straight then turns onto a narrower path and comes to a stop. Erik rises from his seat and exists first. He offers me his hand and as I emerge, I take in the scene before me. The landscape is breathtakingly beautiful with low rolling hills and lush forests as far as the eye can see. There are no torture chambers, or trap doors or endless dark passages here. Instead, the area is teaming with life. I hear the soft chirping of the crickets and the melodious songs of the nightingales as they call to their mates. I’m instantly overcome with a deep urge to kick off my shoes and run wild. I want to run until my lungs burn and my legs can no longer carry me. I’m so lost in thought I do not realize Erik is speaking to me.

“Are you well my dear,” he asks concerned.

“Yes Erik,” I say, my eyes trained on the open space in front of me.

“Chris-tine,” he calls and I immediately turn to face him. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”

I look away embarrassed. “I’m sorry Erik. I just wasn’t expecting,” I gesture to the space in front of me, “all of this.”

“It is quite lovely, is it not?”

“More than I could have ever imagined.”

“There is much still to see, my Christine, but first I must speak with the driver. Wait here for me. Do not venture off alone.”

I’m not sure if it’s the fresh air or something else but suddenly I’m feeling quite brazen.

“Are you afraid I will run away,” I ask with an air of defiance.

“You may try,” he says, his eyes filled with amusement at the thought that I could ever manage to execute such a plan. Then he leans in close to me, his good humor disappearing as he whispers, “but know that I will ALWAYS find you.” He pauses and places a closed fist over his heart, “MY Christine.”

“Why must you make everything sound like a threat,” I ask, my confidence replaced by a nervous tension growing in the pit of my stomach.

He cocks his head to the side and sighs. “It doesn’t have to be. If you would just give me a chance, I know I could make you happy."

I’m about to object, to explain that I can never be truly happy when he forced this life upon me but the words die on my lips. The truth is, even after all he has done to me, and taken from me, I do not have the strength to break his heart.

As if sensing my weakness, he continues his pleading. “Please Christine, Erik wishes for nothing more than to take care of his angel.”

I stare at the ground defeated and silently nod my consent. Then I see his shadow move in the direction of the waiting carriage. Moments later, I hear an unfamiliar voice and I turn surprised to see the driver conversing amiably with Erik.

“Monsieur, there must be some mistake. You have paid me double the fare.”

“Indeed. You have made good on your promise to deliver myself and my companion safely to our destination. It is well earned.”

“I thank you Monsieur, but I cannot in good conscience accept this.”

“Jules, do not argue with me. We both know your family needs the money and your son must attend a university. Promise me you will see to it!”

There is a desperation in Erik’s voice that I do not understand. I have never known Erik to care about the fate of another human being other than myself. This knew information revitalizes my hope that he might still be redeemed.

“Yes, Monsieur. I promise.”

“Good,” Erik responds, relief evident in his voice.

“Monsieur,” the unfamiliar man calls again nervously. “Forgive me for being so bold, but I am truly happy you have found someone. I did not like the thought of you living all alone.”

Erik shifts uncomfortably and steals a quick glance in my direction. Then he turns his attention back to the driver.

“It is late Jules. Go home to your wife. She will be expecting you.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” he says obediently and picks up the reigns preparing to leave, then pauses. “Will I hear from you again?”

“Perhaps,” Erik replies noncommittally.

“Be well Monsieur.”

Erik nods and steps away from the hansom as it begins to move forward then he turns and shuffles toward me until he is within arms reach.

“Who was that man,” I ask curiously.

He looks back at the carriage as it disappears into the distance.

“No one of consequence.”

I can tell he is feigning indifference as I think of how he worried for the man and his son but I do not pry any further. He turns back to me then, a sly smile visible under the mask as he raises his hand and snaps his fingers together. In an instant, a bright red rose appears out of thin air.

“For you my dear.”

I raise my eyebrow at him suspiciously for a moment then accept his gift bringing it to my nose to inhale its sweet scent. He watches me intently and I feel slightly breathless. Then he moves to stand behind me and whispers softly in my ear, “Welcome home, Christine.”

Before me stands a quaint house with a pale pink façade surrounded on all sides by rose bushes. I am immediately rendered speechless and it takes me a few moments to compose myself before I can speak again. When I finally do, my voice is trembling.

“How could you possibly have known,” I ask more to myself than Erik.

He is understandably confused by my question. “What do you mean my dear?”

“I’ve seen this house before Erik. When I was younger, it would appear in my dreams.”

He seems just as surprised by my revelation as I am. “It has appeared in mine as well.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Erik how is that even possible,” I ask incredulously. He doesn’t respond right away, and I notice he has a far off look in his eye. “Many years ago, I was commissioned by the Shah of Persia to build a palace for him. All I wanted was to create beautiful things but the Shah and his mother had other plans for me.”

“What kinds of plans,” I ask foolishly and I am met with a cold and icy stare.

“Tread carefully Christine, there are things about Erik you need never know.”

A shiver of fear runs through me and I try not to imagine what atrocities he likely committed in Persia.

“What does any of this have to do with the house Erik?”

“You see Christine, my time in Persia was quite unpleasant. Sometimes I needed to escape.” 

“How did you…” I being to inquire but he interrupts me.

“That is not important. All you need to know is that during these moments, I would experience the most vivid dreams but there was one in particular that my mind would revisit often, like a melody repeating itself. How I yearned for that dream each night! It brought me a sense of peace I did not know existed.” He pauses briefly and I can sense his vulnerability. “I based the design of this house on that vision because it reminds me of you. You are my comfort and my solace. You are my dream Christine.”

The weight of his love falls heavily upon my soul and I feel as though I’m drowning. As if sensing my unease at his words, Erik quickly looks away. “Forgive me Christine, I know you do not like when I admit to such feelings. Let us not speak of it again.”

He begins to walk away as words fall from my mouth in a hurried whisper, “There was music.”

He stops in his tracks. “Excuse me?”

“In my dream. There was this exact house and the most beautiful music coming from within but I could never enter, so I would stand by the door and listen. Sometimes I would even sing along.”

“And how did the dream make you feel Christine?” He is standing much closer to me than he was a moment ago making it difficult to concentrate.

“Light, peaceful, happy. I never wanted to wake from it,” I answer honestly.

“Perhaps now you won’t have to,” he says in that velvety voice that immediately clouds my mind.

He holds out his gloved hand and I take it as I let him lead me through the maze of rose bushes toward our house. I’ve always been fascinated by roses. They are by their very nature a paradox. I examine the one in my hand as we walk. The vibrancy of its color, the delicacy of its petals and the subtle sweetness of its scent masking its hidden danger. Soon we are standing before a thick wooden door as Erik fiddles in his coat pocket and removes a shiny key. A click and a turn of the knob and the door opens as he steps aside.

“After you, Mademoiselle.”

As I step over the threshold, a gust of warm air caresses my face as the gentle glow of candlelight illuminates the area. I notice rose petals scattered across the floor and their sweet smell permeates the house. The scene before me is terribly romantic and my heart breaks because I know he planned this moment just for me in the hopes that I might return his affection.

“Which room do you wish to see first my dear?”

It does not take me long to make my decision. “The music room,” I reply.

Erik chuckles slightly. “Of course, it is just beyond the staircase over to the right.”

He removes his gloves and places them on a nearby pedestal table. Then, he leads me through the house until we are standing in front of two large, white doors. I can sense his excitement as he opens them wide and ushers me inside. The space is larger than a typical music room. In the middle of the area, resides a grand piano and across from it a large ornate sofa. In one corner of the room, a violin rests against the wall, while the other half of the space is lined with shelves that contain a vast collection of books from around the world. On the far wall, are two glass doors that lead out to a small veranda. Erik watches me as I make my way through the room. I approach the piano and lightly touch the keys as I imagine him playing one of his compositions for me. I am brought back from my musings by his heavenly voice.

“I chose this room specifically for the acoustics. I must admit I am eager to hear you sing in here my dear. I’m quite certain it will be glorious!”

I smile down at the keys. “I am equally eager to hear you play,” I admit shyly.

Our eyes meet from across the room and the air suddenly feels very heavy. It makes me lightheaded and I casually place my hand on the side of the piano for balance.

“Such music we shall create Christine! The angels will weep from the beauty of it!”

His passionate spirit is contagious and I feel myself nodding fervently in agreement. We stay that way for a moment, eyes locked on each other until I look away clearing my throat.

“Will you show me the rest of the house now?”

He nods and leads me on a tour through all the other areas of our new dwelling. On our way to my bedroom, which is our final destination, we pass by a closed door.

“What is in there,” I ask curiously.

My question catches him by surprise and he begins to shift nervously.

“That my dear is a room for Erik. It’s a small indulgence of mine.”

“Can I see it?”

“Perhaps another time. It is late and I would rather you have a good night sleep.”

I do not press him further and we walk the last few steps to the door of my new bedroom. Erik opens it to let me in but I notice he remains in the doorway. As I enter, I am once again struck by the exquisite beauty of the architecture and décor. The room has all the comforts that would normally be afforded to a woman of high social standing. A canopy bed, made from the finest wood and handcrafted with intricate designs is situated across from a large vanity that holds an assortment of expensive perfumes and other feminine products. There is a private bath with a marble tub surrounded by three bay windows, and as promised, a closet filled with a variety of the finest garments money can buy. For a moment I am so overwhelmed I simply stand in the center of the room, my back turned toward Erik.

“You have been awfully quiet tonight my dear. I hope that you have found everything to your liking.”

“Erik,” I say, swiftly spinning to face him. “Please do not misinterpret my silence for disappointment.”

“You like the house then,” he asks hopeful.

“Yes Erik. I like it very much.”

“I am glad. Erik hopes that he has made you happy.”

I smile at him and I see him grab the door frame tightly with his hand as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are when you smile, Christine?”

Immediately my face flushes and I look down at the floor unable to meet his eyes.

“Forgive me, Erik does not wish to make you uncomfortable.”

Truthfully, I am deeply flattered by his comment.

I glance back up at him. “Erik,” I pause searching for the appropriate words to express exactly how I feel. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to leave the safety of the opera cellars, but I am truly grateful. This is more than I ever thought I would have.”

“You deserve much more than this, my Christine.”

The sincerity in his voice and the love I see in his eyes coupled with the knowledge that he built all this with my comfort in mind, brings me so close to tears that I need to bite my lip to try to refrain from falling apart in front of him. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if he had pursued me under different circumstances. If he had not been a murderer and an extortionist but simply Erik, brilliant musician and architect. If he had never manipulated or kidnapped me. If he had given me a proper choice.

I walk over to where he is still standing at the door. He looks at me confused, unsure why I have approached him. I tilt my forehead forward inviting him to place a chaste kiss there like I had done on that terrible night all those months ago. His eyes widen as he realizes my intention.

“Christine,” he whispers. “You are such a good girl. No one has ever shown Erik such kindness. Not even his own miserable mother.”

A pained expression flitters across my face. “How could she be so cruel,” I ask, not wanting to believe that a mother could do such a terrible thing.

“I do not know dear child. I have found it best not to dwell on my past. The memories are unpleasant.”

“Erik, I am so sorry.”

He moves closer to me and raises his long boney fingers inches from my lips.

“Hush now Christine, there is no need to apologize for something that is not your fault.”

Suddenly, his eyes become very serious as if he is deep in concentration. Then he reaches up and places a trembling hand on either side of my face as his thumbs move lightly across my cheeks.

“Your skin is so soft,” he says as his breath tickles my cheek.

My legs suddenly feel weak. Without thinking, I place my hands lightly on his chest and I can feel his heartbeat moving in tandem with my own. Then, he slowly leans down and places a gentle kiss to the center of my forehead. His lips feel cold, just as they did all those months ago, but this time they leave behind a warm tingling sensation that spreads throughout my body and I have to stifle a moan that threatens to escape from my lips. His entire body is shaking as he draws back, his hands still cradling my face, not wanting to let go.

“I think it might be wise for Erik to leave now Christine, before his actions have unintended consequences.”

The weight of his words brings me back to reality and I quickly step away putting some needed distance between us.

We stare at each other awkwardly for a few moments until Erik turns to leave.

“Sleep well Christine.”

“And you Erik,” I reply softly.

When the door finally closes behind him, I release a breath I did not even know I was holding. I walk over to my new vanity and stare at myself in the mirror slowly bringing my fingertips up to my forehead to trace over the spot where Erik’s lips had been only moments before. Then I ready myself for bed and as I begin to drift to sleep I hear the faint sound of Erik's violin as it plays a familiar melody that I have only ever heard in our shared dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been such a challenge to write! What is here is only the first part of what was fast becoming an endless chapter so I had to break it up. There is still much more to come. Reviews are greatly appreciated!


	8. A Dangerous Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine's complicated feelings toward Erik make for an intense music lesson.

In the weeks since our arrival, Erik and I have settled into a peaceful coexistence. We begin each morning having breakfast in companionable silence. Then we take long walks around the grounds of the house exploring the vast countryside. During these walks, Erik tells me many stories. Most are from books, but every so often he will share an anecdote from his own life. No matter the subject, I find myself hanging on his every word as he paints vivid pictures for me with his beautiful voice. In the afternoon, I retire to the sitting room to practice my sewing while Erik goes off by himself to compose. We meet again for dinner and the rest of the evening is spent in the music room. It is my favorite part of the day because nothing else matters except Erik, myself and our music. Sometimes I worry I am becoming too complacent in this new life and I have to remind myself that Erik is still a dangerous man. Regardless, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to ignore this inexplicable pull I feel toward him.

Today, Erik has gone out for supplies and to my surprise I realize I miss his presence. I busy myself by walking through the rooms of the house tidying up, until I notice the door to the room that Erik created for himself has been left ajar. I still do not know what he keeps in there but I know he visits it often when he cannot sleep. My curiosity gets the better of me and I make my way across the hall and slowly enter. It is very dark and I have to feel my way to the window. I draw open the curtains and immediately the room is bathed in sunlight. I survey the area before me and notice several pieces of paper strewn across the floor and a large easel off to the corner. Along the walls are shelves filled with all sorts of odd-looking contraptions. The room is a tour de force of Erik’s genius and I take a moment to marvel at his work.

In the midst of my explorations, I pass by the easel, and stop when I notice our penciled reflections staring back at me. He has captured my likeness perfectly. I am leaning up against a tree, my unruly hair cascading down past my shoulders as I smile up at him. He has drawn himself with the same thin, long, angular frame but with one striking difference. He has given himself a strong and handsome face. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as my fingers involuntarily come up to lightly trace over his drawn form. We look like the perfect couple, so much in love and my heart clenches inside my chest because I know this is what he truly wants for us.

Behind this image, I find several others, moments of a life not meant to be but that he yearns for all the same. I stop when one in particular catches my eye. It is of Erik holding a cherub faced little girl, with caramel curls in his arms, while a young boy with bright golden eyes stands at his side. Erik is looking down at the boy with pride and adoration. Some of my tears drip down and form droplets on the drawing as I realize these are his children. These are our children. Poor Erik! All he has ever wanted was to be just like everyone else. A handsome face to compliment his handsome family. A part of me wishes I could make these images real for him, but I cannot forget the things he has done to me, to Raoul and to the hundreds of other people who were unlucky enough to meet their end by his own hand. I do not think I have the strength for that kind of forgiveness. No, I must stay true to my original promise to God. I will be his friend and his companion. I will help him on his journey toward redemption but I cannot give him my heart. I cannot be the living wife he wants me to be.

I begin to reorganize the papers back onto the easel when one of them separates and floats to the ground. I pick it up and immediately my face flushes as I stare at it, unable to look away. He has drawn us together, our half naked bodies pressed tightly against one another. We are a mass of tangled limbs and sheets that it is impossible to tell where one of us ends and the other begins. Unlike the other drawings, Erik’s face appears in its usual horror with its twisted pieces of gnarled flesh, sunken cheekbones, and a gaping hole where his nose should be. He cradles my head in his hands, his golden eyes filled with such love and devotion as he gazes upon my face. My eyes are closed, my head drawn back, mouth open wide in a mix of both ecstasy and horror as a lone tear travels down my cheek. I should find this image shameful, repulsive even, but I find it both terribly erotic and painfully tragic. There lies a truth here that the rest of these images lack. After a time, I cannot bare to look at it any longer and I quickly hide it away hoping to forget its existence.

***********************************************************************************************************************************************

Later that night, after dinner, Erik and I make our way to the music room. He sits down at the piano bench and turns toward me.

“What would you like to sing tonight my dear?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind playing for me instead.”

He looks at me, his eyes wide in surprise. “You do not wish to sing?”

“I’m sorry Erik, I’m feeling a little tired tonight,” I lie. The truth is I cannot concentrate enough to sing. I’ve tried hard to forget the image of our entangled bodies but it is burned into my mind. His presence only seems to have enhanced its effect on me. I keep imagining his cool skin pressed against mine and I wonder what it would feel like to have him move deep inside me.

He narrows his eyes. “I suppose we can skip tonight but let’s not make this a habit Christine.”

“Of course not,” I reassure him as I take a seat on the sofa.

He turns back toward the piano and stretches his long fingers out before gently placing them on the keys and I can think of nothing else but those same fingers tracing along the inside of my thigh.

“What would you like to hear this evening my dear?”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, my hands twisting in my lap as I continue to stare at his fingers.

“Christine,” he calls out and I flinch, my head snapping up from his hands to meet his eyes.

“Yes Erik,” I ask innocently as I clear my throat.

He is looking at me curiously now. “I simply wished to know what you wanted me to play but you seemed miles away, Christine.”

I pray he cannot see the blush that I know has appeared across my face. “Perhaps you can play one of your own compositions for me,” I suggest quickly.

“As you wish,” he replies and the next moment the room is filled with a rich melody that makes my body warm and my limbs heavy. I lay back onto the pillowy cushions and rest my chin against the palm of my hand. I want to close my eyes and let Erik’s music carry me away but I’m too interested in watching his fingers skip across the keyboard. I find the fluidity and gracefulness of their movements quite sensual. All too soon, the song comes to an end and he looks up from the piano.

“That was beautiful Erik, Thank you.”

“You are welcome, my dear.”

“You play so effortlessly. I wish I had your talent.”

His hand moves through the air waving me off. “It is no matter Christine. Your voice is enough.”

I sigh. “I suppose it will have to be.”

He looks at me curiously. “Have you ever tried to play before?”

“My father taught me a little, but I’m not sure I remember any of it.”

He thinks on this for a moment. “Would you like to learn,” he asks and I see a hint of excitement in his eyes.

“You will likely be disappointed,” I warn him.

“Nonsense. Come, let me see what you know.” And he moves across the bench leaving space for me to join him.

I rise tentatively from the sofa and make my way over to him. The bench is not made for two people and as I slide onto it the sides of our bodies touch and I feel Erik go rigid next to me. I glance over in his direction and see him focusing on a point straight ahead clearly affected by my nearness. This secretly pleases me and I purposely shift, causing our bodies to make contact again. I hear his breath catch in his throat and a slight thrill runs through me. Several moments pass before he acknowledges me again.

“Place your hands on the keys Christine,” he commands and immediately I obey.

I’m about to press down upon them when he interrupts me. “My dear you are not holding your hands properly.”

I slowly lift my head upward from the piano to lock eyes with him.

“How should I hold them Erik,” I ask in a flirtatious whisper, unable to stop myself. I watch transfixed as the skin at the hallow of his throat pulls taunt as he swallows nervously.

“If you might permit me to touch your hand, I can show you.”

I nod and unconsciously bite my lower lip. He gently takes hold of my hand in both of his. They are cold, yet strong and I feel an ache deep in my soul as he reverently positions them across the smooth ivory. He touches me as if I’m a sacred and fragile thing and I find I cannot take my eyes off of him. He senses me staring and quickly lets go of my hand.

“Has Erik done something wrong Christine,” he asks anxiously.

I’m not even paying attention to his question as I blurt out a hidden secret. “I like your eyes.”

Those golden orbs of his widen in surprise. “My eyes,” he asks confused.

I nod. “I’ve never seen anyone with eyes that glow before. They are very beautiful.”

Erik shifts uncomfortably in his seat clearly flustered by my words and I find his reaction endearing.

“Christine, are you feeling well?” His voice is laced with concern. “Your face is flushed. Perhaps you have a fever.”

The way he worries for me tugs at my heart. “I do not have a fever, Erik. I am perfectly fine.”

“Are you sure,” he asks suspiciously.

“Yes, I am quite sure.” I cock my head to the side assessing him. “You know Erik, when someone gives you a compliment the proper response is to say thank you.”

He looks confused at first, then realization dawns on him. “Oh yes of course! Please, forgive Erik, he is not use to compliments, especially about his appearance.”

It saddens me to know that he has never experienced even this small kindness in his life. We both remain quiet for several seconds as he turns from me to stare down at his hands. Then I hear him whisper faintly, “Thank you.” Instinctively, I place my hand on his arm and give it a slight squeeze. “You’re welcome,” I say with tenderness.

Erik makes an audible gasp at the contact and I quickly move my hand away.

“I’m sorry Erik, I did not mean to…”

“It is quite alright dear child. Let us continue,” he instructs in a clipped tone distancing himself from me once more.

“Yes of course,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment at his curt response.

He readjusts his position on the bench leaving a small space between us. I place my fingers back onto the keyboard under Erik’s directions, which he gives without touching me. After several minutes, some of what my father taught me returns and I’m playing a basic melody on my own. Erik seems pleased with my quick progress.

“Perhaps we can try a simple duet,” he suggests eagerly.

I nod, feeling a sense of pride at his approval and willingness to play alongside me. As his protégé, those feelings have never changed, even as our relationship has grown more complex.

“Let us try a small segment from Mozart’s Magic Flute. It is quite simple.”

He demonstrates the sequence of notes for me to follow. I stumble a few times early on, but Erik quickly corrects my mistakes. Soon enough, we are playing together, the tension from before melting away as we surrender ourselves to the music. As the end of the song draws to a close, I glance in his direction to find he is staring at me. I meet his gaze as something deep inside of me revels in the delicious intensity of the moment. By the time the final notes are played, our faces are mere inches apart and I wonder if he means to kiss me.

“Chris-tine,” he calls softly and I close my eyes savoring that heavenly voice. When I open them again he is still so close, his eyes filled with such longing as his hands clench the material of his pants leg tightly.

“Is there something you want Erik,” I ask breathlessly, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Oh Christine, if you only knew what I want, you would think me quite mad.”

His proximity, his voice and the lingering effects of our music is clouding my judgment. My body is thrumming with need. I have tried so hard to fight against this desire I have for him and I’m so tired of fighting. He is as dangerous as poison but as intoxicating as wine. My strict Catholic upbringing has taught me that it is sinful for an unmarried woman to be so wanton but my need for his touch is becoming physically painful. Perhaps the image from before has bewitched me or perhaps all these months without any form of physical contact has brought me to a breaking point. Whatever the reason, I want to wrap my body tightly around his and never let go.

“I already think you’re mad,” I respond with a sly smile. “Now tell me what you want.” I am surprised by my own boldness. Never in my life have I spoken to a man in this manner before, not even Raoul. It both thrills and terrifies me.

“I believe you already know the answer, Christine.”

“Then why do you hesitate when you know I will not stop you.”

His body shudders at my words and his eyes widen in disbelief. “You wish for Erik to touch you,” he asks in a nervous whisper that sends a surge of heat through my body. I nod and watch as he licks his thin malformed lips. For a fleeting moment, I fear for myself, but then his trembling fingers come up to caress the side of my cheek and any doubts I may have had disappear as I lean into his touch. He continues to drag his fingertips lightly down my neck to my collarbone and a soft moan escapes my lips. He stares at me hungrily, his eyes wild with unbridled passion but they also hold a sense of wonder, as if he cannot believe this moment is real. He continues his feather light touch across my collarbone to the hollow of my throat and I close my eyes savoring the sensation. Then I feel him lean in closer, his lips inches from mine as he whispers a fervent plea, “Say you love me Christine.”

Instantly, whatever spell had previously taken hold of me is broken. My eyes fly open in a panic at his sobering words and I shift backward on the bench pulling away from him. My actions leave him momentarily dazed. He turns from me then, his shoulders hunched over, his body shaking. For a moment I’m concerned that he might be crying, until I hear that awful sound of maniacal laughter spew forth from his mouth followed by a deathly silence. He shifts on the bench to face me once more, his eyes narrowed, his body tense. He reminds me of a viper ready to strike.

“What games are you playing tonight, dear child?”

“I’m sorry Erik,” I cry out. I do not know what else to say. I hardly know myself right now.

“SILENCE,” he roars and I jump from the bench to stand behind the sofa.

“Why do you not listen to me when I speak Christine?”

I shake my head, my body is trembling. “Erik, I do not understand.”

“Do not pretend with me dear girl! Erik sits at your feet like a dog waiting for his master to feed him the scraps from his plate.” He is breathing heavily now, his eyes filled with a mix of anger, hurt and want. “But Erik is so tired of waiting!”

He leaps from the bench then and the next thing I know, his tall, thin frame is hovering over mind, and I back up against the wall to put some distance between us. He positions his long arms on either side of my head, as his palms lean against the bookshelf behind me. Even as close as we are, he does not touch me.

“Ask me again what I want.”

“Erik please,” I beg.

“ASK ME!”

“What do you want Erik,” I ask, my voice barely audible.

“Ah Christine, so many things! I’ve never wanted anything in my life more than you.” As he says this, he uses his fingertips to lightly trace the outline of my lips. There is a fiery intensity in his eyes that both excites and terrifies me and I stifle a moan of pleasure that threatens to escape my traitorous mouth. He moves in closer, his hot breath on my face as he parts my lips ever so slightly with his trembling fingers.

“How I wish I could capture your perfect lips with my own. A lesser man would think nothing of taking you right here against this bookcase but it is not enough Christine. I must have your love too! I must have all of you!” He grasps my hand roughly and places it over his heart covering it with his own. “Do you understand me now Christine? Do you understand how Erik burns for you?”

His words make me dizzy and fuel an already burgeoning desire within me to be consumed by him. How is it possible for my heart to oppose what my body so desperately wants? Tears of frustration and fear blur my vision. “Erik, I cannot give you all of me.”

“Cannot or will not,” he challenges back.

When I do not respond he growls and rips off his mask throwing it to the floor in a fit of rage as I turn my head away from him. “Look at me Christine,” he bellows but I keep my eyes trained on the floor. It is not his hideous face that I want to hide from. The truth is I cannot bare to see his pained expression as I refuse his love again. I sense him moving closer and I push back until the edges of the bookshelf dig painfully into my back. For a moment, all that can be heard is the sound of our labored breaths. Finally he speaks, his anger from before replaced with a sadness and self loathing that torments my very soul.

“Tell me Christine, would you love me if I had been born handsome like your precious Vicomte?”

I turn my red, tear stained face back to meet his with a look of pained disbelief. His eyes are also filled with tears and I curse myself for the misery my actions have brought upon us tonight.

“You are crying again,” he whispers sadly. Then I feel his cool hand touch the side of my face as he takes one of his fingers and scoops up a lone tear traveling down my cheek. He stares at the shimmering droplet for a moment then brings it up to his lips and licks it away with his tongue. My body betrays me again as a flush appears across my face and I sense a deep throbbing between my legs.

“I would drink up all your tears if I could.”

Goosebumps form across my skin and I shudder at his words. Erik is the only person who makes me want to feel things I should not want to feel. He wields a power over me that I do not fully understand.

“Erik, do you truly think me so shallow of a person that I would deny you my love because of your appearance?”

He draws back from me then, refusing to acknowledge my question. Instead, he wordlessly kneels down to retrieve his mask from the floor. He remains there, lost in thought, tracing the edges of the white porcelain. “I had hoped the illusion would be enough to conceal the fact that it is a corpse that loves you Christine.”

“Erik, when will you realize this has never been about your face.”

He stares up at me then, confusion etched across his distorted features. “If not my face, then what Christine? What more can I give you? I have shared my music, lavished you with the finest of things, and built you this house. I have made you the center of my world, my queen, and still you deny me your love.”

“Erik, love is a choice. It is not a commodity to be purchased or some trophy to be won. You cannot will me to love you, no matter how much you want it to be so. You may have lavished me with fine dresses and jewels and wrote beautiful arias for me to sing but you have taken all of my freedoms. I am your prisoner here, nothing more.”

He shakes his head in disagreement then rises from the floor and deposits his mask upon the sofa before coming to stand before me once again. His gaze shifts down to my lips and moves slowly over my body to drink in the sight of me. I can tell he is using every ounce of self control he has left to keep himself from acting in an untoward way. He takes in a deep breath, then kneels down on one knee, tears glistening in his eyes.

“I cannot let you go Christine, even though I know you wish to leave me. Erik does not know how to live without you.” I should be angered by this confession, by his absolute disregard for the things I want, but I can only feel pity and sorrow for him now. Before I can even formulate a response, he takes hold of my hand and slides a gold band with a brilliant sparkling sapphire onto my finger.

“You are not my prisoner Christine. You are to be my wife and I will love you for all eternity.” He brings my hand up to his lips and places a chaste kiss upon it. I stare at him for several moments as he kneels before me, this broken and desperate man that loves me so completely, and for the first time I let myself imagine what it would be like to love him back. It would be so easy to lose myself to him. It would be too much and not enough, painful yet pleasurable, frightening yet comforting. He would take my soul and entwine it with his and Christine Daae would cease to exist. His love is obsessive and toxic and I cannot want it! I must not want it!

“Say something Christine,” he begs.

There is nothing to say that has not already been said. I cannot give him my heart and he will not let me go. “What is to become of us Erik,” I ask shakily.

He considers me for a time, and I see a flash of pain mixed with regret reflected in his eyes that is quickly replaced by icy resolution. He stands to his full height and issues his response in that commanding tone I know all too well.

“We shall marry in a week’s time and then Erik will finally have a living wife.”

The finality with which he delivers this declaration pierces my heart but I bow my head in consent, resigned to my fate. He stands then, shifting uncomfortably, as he focuses on a point other than my face. “Christine, our marriage will not change anything between us. Erik does not expect anything more from you. He will be content to carry on just as things are now. There need not be any further misunderstandings between us.”

I nod and pretend not to notice the twinge of disappointment that briefly flickers across his face. An uneasy silence descends upon the room. Erik turns away from me to retrieve his mask and places it back on, running a hand over his head adjusting his wig. When he looks to me again he is the picture of composure as if the last several minutes between us never occurred. It unnerves me.

“Shall I play another song for you my dear,” he asks nonchalantly.

“Erik if you don’t mind, I would like to retire to my room now,” I say swallowing my tears.

“Of course. Erik bids you a good evening.”

He turns swiftly back to the piano bench and begins playing, seeming to forget I am still there. He pours his heart out onto those keys, the only friend he has ever truly known. I quickly make my exit before his music takes hold of me.

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

I feel a sense of relief as I step into my bedroom. I perform my nighttime rituals in a slight daze, as various moments from the evening replay in my mind. When I am finally settled in bed, I look down at the ring Erik gifted me earlier. It mocks me as it glistens in the candle light. This ring that fits perfectly yet weighs heavily upon my finger. I should take it off and hide it away but I find that I cannot bring myself to remove it. It feels as if it has always been there and I have this crazy notion that without it I might die. This thought troubles me deeply and I throw myself quite dramatically onto my pillow as loud racking sobs leave my body in waves. My thoughts and emotions concerning Erik are as fickle as his own mercurial nature. How I wish for someone, anyone, other than Erik, to talk with right now. I have no friends, no family, no one I can rely on for advice. He has isolated me so completely from the outside world that I am utterly helpless. I cry until my tears run dry and my body feels blessedly numb.

Soon my eyes begin to feel heavy and once I close them, an image of my father appears before me. It is not the first time I’ve dreamt of him but this dream is different. He seems so very real, standing there, a serene smile gracing his fine features. I almost envy his contentment. He begins to speak to me and I am overcome with emotion.

“My Little Lotte, all grown up,” he says, his voice filled with warmth and gentleness.

“Oh Papa,” I cry out. “How I’ve missed you!”

“I know my darling daughter.”

He comes forward then and wraps me in a warm embrace. I lean my head against his chest as I did when I was a child, nestled in a cocoon of safety. The fabric of his shirt smells of cherry wood and cloves, reminiscent of the pipes he would smoke as he sat upon his rocking chair, while Raoul and I read to each other dark stories of the North. I grab a fistful of the fabric in my hand and sob into his chest.

“I’m so lost without you, Papa.”

He gently strokes my hair. “My precious little girl with the voice of an angel and a heart of pure gold. You must be strong or the world will swallow you up.”

“I don’t know how. I don’t know anything anymore.”

“Oh my sweet girl. Your life will not get better by chance Little Lotte, it will only get better with change.”

He pulls me from him then and lifts my chin so our eyes meet, his expression suddenly serious. “Never be afraid of the truth, Christine.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, suddenly feeling a wave of panic encase my body in a vice like grip.

“I will always be with you, Lotte. Never forget that.”

He begins to move away from me then, the edges of his form, slowly disappearing. I fall to my knees as I cry out to him, “Please, Papa come back. Do not leave me again,” but when I look up from the floor, I realize he is already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this chapter because who doesn't love angst mixed with a whole lot of sexual tension. I would love to hear your thoughts in the comment section! 
> 
> Up next, things get even more complicated for poor Christine.


	9. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine tries to make a deal with Erik.

Chapter 9: Confession

I awaken to the soft glow of the morning sun as it streams in from my bedroom window. The image of my father still fresh in my mind. Even though I know it was a dream, I take a moment to ponder the meaning of his words. I still don’t understand everything he was trying to say to me, but one thing is clear, my situation will not get better on its own. It is time for me to be strong. It is time for a change. I arise from my bed with new found determination. I tear through my wardrobe until I find what I am looking for, a beautiful blue frock I’ve worn only once before. I lightly graze the soft silk with my fingertips remembering how Erik couldn’t keep his eyes off me that night. I momentarily flush at the memory but remind myself this is only for the success of my plan. I change quickly, then take a seat at the vanity. I pin up my curls but leave some strands of hair loose around my face. Then I set to work on applying some rouge and lipstick. When I’m done, I stand across from the full-length mirror appraising myself. I am Bizet’s Carmen, I am Beethoven’s Leonore, and today I will take back control of my life.

I find him at his usual spot in the dining room, the table already set for our breakfast ritual. I take a moment to assess him before announcing my presence. He is impeccably dressed, as always, and I let my eyes linger over his body. He sits with his legs crossed, a book perched on the top of his thigh, while his fingers tap out a melody on the arm of his chair. I admire the long angular features of his thin form and while he will never be a handsome man by any societal standards, there is something very sensual about the way he holds himself and the way he moves. He is graceful and fluid, just like his voice, just like his music. I touch the side of my new ring with my thumb, a reminder that next week this man will be my husband. He will belong solely to me, and while we would both like to pretend that nothing will change between us after the wedding, deep down I know everything will change. I must secure certain liberties for myself now before it is too late. I take a deep breath and enter, my head held high radiating confidence.

He looks up as I make my way toward my chair, his eyes widening at the sight of me, the book he was so engrossed in sliding from his lap onto the floor. I smile inwardly, enjoying this one power I have over him. I take my seat wordlessly at the table, his eyes still upon me.

“Good morning Erik,” I say nonchalantly, reaching for my tea cup.

He remains silent, the calm serenity his body exuded before replaced by a thick tension. His fingers dig painfully into the arm rest of his chair.

“Erik, is everything ok? You seem anxious.”

“No, Erik is quite well, I assure you.” He looks down at his dish distractedly. For a time, the only sound that can be heard is that of my spoon as it clinks against my tea cup, dissolving a cube of sugar.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, you look exceptionally lovely this morning, but I wonder are you not a bit overdressed for our mid morning walk?”

“That is because I will not be joining you for a walk today.”

“And why is that,” he inquires, a hint of alarm in his voice.

“I plan to take a trip into town, on my own. There are things I require and I would like to see the places beyond this house. ”

His hand grips the table cloth. “Tell me what you require and I will see that it is brought for you. As for sightseeing, I can take you to the park on Sunday.”

“That is not necessary Erik. I am quite capable of going on my own.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” he says in a low growl and pins me to my seat with an icy glare. A shiver of fear runs through me but I do not let him see it. Instead I sit up straighter and address him in a forthright manner.

“Yesterday you placed a ring on my finger and demanded I be your wife. Then, in the same breath you told me I was not your prisoner. Am I to be your wife or your prisoner, for I will not be both.”

His arm moves quickly sending his breakfast dish through the air to shatter in pieces against the hardwood floor. I remain still, giving no indication that his temper tantrum has frightened me. As Papa said, I have to be strong.

He rises from his seat to stand by the large window, muttering angry words under his breath.

“If you go, how can I be certain you will return?”

“I suppose you will have to trust me.”

“You will forgive me but I’m not in the habit of trusting people,” he scoffs.

“Erik, up till now, our relationship has been built on nothing but manipulation and demands. You say you love me, that you want me to be your wife, but a marriage is based on mutual trust.” I take a deep breath. “Give me my freedom and I will be your living wife.” I pause to clear my throat, then add brazenly, “And I will not deny you your right to our marriage bed.”

His body goes rigid at my words but then a mirthless laugh echoes throughout the room. Slowly he walks toward me, like a lion ready to strike, his golden eyes a mix of both desire and suspicion. I remain seated, my eyes locked with his, heat rising under my skin. I should be afraid, as he steps closer, but all I can think about are his long, thin arms and how they might feel snaking around my body, pulling me against him, his lips claiming mine in a passionate kiss.

Instead, he kneels down in front of me, then reaches up touching one of my curls. He rolls the wavy blonde strand back and forth between his fingers and lets his eyes wonder over my body, deliberately letting his gaze linger on my bosom. He brings his face close to mine and when he speaks I can feel his hot breath against my neck.

“What has happened to my sweet, little, innocent Christine,” he purrs. “Tell me, who is this vixen that likes to play such dangerous games?”

I lean into him a bit, our mouths so close, the scent of his morning tea still lingering on his breath.

"I know you want me Erik. Give me my freedom and I shall be yours," I whisper seductively.

“I would be careful how you bargain Christine. I am a very hungry man.” His words make my mouth and throat dry and the throbbing between my legs is so intense that I cannot think straight. All I want is to be lifted onto the table, and feel him push into me again and again, until I scream his name. I bite my lip to stifle a moan. 

"Do you agree," I ask breathless. 

“And what of love, Christine, hmmm? What of your soul? Will you give me that too in exchange for these precious visits into town?”

“Erik why can’t this be enough for you?”

“You know why,” he bellows and slams his fist down onto the table, causing another dish to fall to the floor and shatter. His golden stare pierces mine and all the courage I had felt throughout the conversation floats away like a piece of driftwood drawn out to sea. I turn my gaze from his, defeated. My father was wrong. I am not strong enough for this.

“A wife vows to love her husband does she not? Yet you cannot promise me your heart when it so clearly belongs to another.”

“My heart belongs to no one,” I reply through clenched teeth.

He clicks his tongue at me disapprovingly. “As you just said, a marriage is built on trust. Do not lie to me Christine. You are filled with memories of that boy.” He moves his hand to gently grip the back of my neck, then lets his fingers slide down to lightly trace the neckline of my dress.” Instinctively, I close my eyes, reveling in the feel of his cool hands against my heated skin.

“Tell me Christine, when I touch you like this, do you not imagine your Vicomte's face? Isn't that why you close your eyes?”

I remain silent. I cannot bring myself to tell him the truth, for fear of what he might do with that knowledge. To admit that I desire him would open up feelings that I have tried so hard to ignore. Yet here I am, asking for his trust, while letting him believe a lie. I am disgusted by my own hypocrisy, but some truths are better left unsaid.

He removes his hands from my body to place them at his sides. “Your silence speaks volumes my dear.”

“Erik, a husband does not keep his wife locked away! You want my love but I can assure you by denying me these simple freedoms, I will only come to resent you!”

He cocks his head to the side for a moment pondering my words and a sense of hope rises up in my chest. Perhaps he finally understands. 

“You are right of course. Erik cannot hope to gain your love by denying you this request. He must continue to make his Christine happy.” He is talking more to himself than to me and he has a far off look in his eyes. 

“Tell me, how long do you plan on being gone, my dear?” His voice is as sweet as honey but instead of putting me at ease, a chill runs down my spine. Something is not right. I swallow nervously, my heart thumbing loudly in my chest.

“Only a few hours.” I manage to croak out.

“Go then, before it gets too late.”

"Th-Thank you, Erik," I stutter, surprised that he actually agreed. I stand swiftly, worried that if I do not hurry, he might change his mind. Before I leave the room, I steal a quick glance in his direction. He is staring at me, but it’s as if he is looking straight through me.

“Erik,” I call out to him, hoping to bring him back from whatever madness has taken hold of him. He flinches at his name, then focuses on me once more and for a brief moment, I see a flash of fear in his eyes. He is afraid I may not return. After all he has taken from me, I should take perverse pleasure in this display of vulnerability, but something deep inside compels me to allay his fear.

“Erik, I will come back to you. I promise.”

He does not respond but then as I turn to leave he calls to me softly, “Christine.”

I stop and lean up against the the edge of the door frame. He comes to stand directly in front of me. “You should eat something before you go,” he suggests, holding out his hand to me. I peer at the contents curiously. I have never seen this food before.

“What are they?”

“Pomegranate seeds, my dear. They are an exotic fruit from Persia. Try them Christine. You will like them.”

His voice is soft, like velvet, enticing me once again to obey without question. I pluck the fruit from his hand without thinking, our fingertips brushing lightly against each other, causing my cheeks to flush. He watches intently as I place several of them onto my tongue. They pop inside my mouth releasing a sweet juice, some of which leaks from the corner of my mouth. I use the sides of my finger to wipe the excess juice away, never taking my eyes from his. Without warning, his long boney fingers curl around my wrist and he brings my hand up to his mouth. He hesitates for just a moment before inserting the soiled part of my finger between his thin lips, sucking the crimson liquid from it with ease. He then places a gentle kiss on the inside of my wrist. My body shudders in response and I close my eyes as the room begins to sway.

Through the haze of my desire, I hear him whisper fiercely, “My Christine, my very own Persephone, mine.”

When I open my eyes, he is gone and I’m left wondering if I actually secured any freedoms for myself at all this morning.

*************************************************************************************

There is a spring in my step and a lightness in my chest as I make my way down the dirt road to hail a hansom. I bask in the warmth of the sun and inhale the fresh scent of the morning dew that covers the patches of grass that line the pathway. Truth be told, I did not think I would make it this far from the house. I was half expecting to find that Erik had somehow bolted the door from the inside or that he would mysteriously reappear and force me to stay, but no such thing happened. I start to feel hopeful again. I want so desperately to believe he can change. I know he can be more, I can feel it deep in my soul, deep in my very bones. I come upon a small thicket and begin to hum a dulcet melody as I trudge on through. My mind starts to weave an endless array of possibilities for my newfound freedom. Perhaps I can go back to singing on the stage at the local theater and to attending mass on Sundays. I’m so lost in thought, I don’t realize that I’ve stepped far out onto the main road just as a hansom is approaching.

The driver pulls hard on the reigns and the carriage swerves and misses me by barely an inch. “Oh mon Dieu,” he shrieks loudly jumping down from the carriage to rush toward me. My heart is thumbing loudly in my chest and I place a hand over my heart in an attempt to quiet it. I look up to see a short stocky man, staring back at me, concern etched across his round face.

“Are you hurt, Mademoiselle,” he inquires, clearly shaken.

“I am fine. Just a bit startled is all.”

“You should pay closer attention to where you are walking. You were very nearly trampled on.” I do not respond, my cheeks flushing with shame. His brow furrows a bit as he stares at me. “Forgive me Mademoiselle, but I know this area well, I feel I would have remembered a pretty face such as yours.”

My blush deepens. “Thank you, Monsieur. I recently moved to this area. I live in a house not far from here.”

“That wouldn’t be the new construction that finished up several weeks ago?”

“Yes, that is the one.”

It is not lost on me that this is the first time I have spoken to another living soul, besides Erik, in months. It feels almost surreal.

The man scratches the hair on his chin, thinking. “I was unaware that anyone had moved in. I had heard whispers from the men at the local Café’ that said the house was owned by a mysterious masked man. Many say he’s not quite right in the head either. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you Mademoiselle?”

I look down and twist my hands together feeling the hard stone of my ring press into the soft lining of my glove. “ No Monsieur, I wouldn’t.” The lie pours easily from my mouth. “Perhaps your friends had too much to drink. Alcohol has been known to dull the senses.”

“You are quite right, I am sure.” He smiles at me warmly. “Forgive me if I have offended you. I did not mean to pry.”

“I am not easily offended.”

He tips his hat at me then turns his attention back to the waiting carriage. “May I offer you a ride somewhere,” he asks, as he sets his mind to work, corralling the skittish horses back onto the main road.

“If you would be able to take me into town, I would be most grateful.”

“Of course, Mademoiselle, it would be my pleasure.”

*************************************************************************************

As the hansom pulls into the town square, I eagerly peak out the side window. It is a glorious sight to behold! Throngs of people line the streets engaged in all sorts of activities. Some haggle local merchants for a better price on bread, others sit at outdoor tables sipping their tea and reading the local papers. When the door to the carriage opens, I emerge to the laughter of a group of children as they play hide and seek in one of the narrow alleyways. I stand there for sometime watching their game and wishing to feel that innocence of youth again. Eventually, I find myself roaming the crowded streets leisurely. I peer into shop windows, sample some of the local foods and take a short stroll through the luscious gardens of the town park. It is while I am reveling in the serenity of the moment that I hear the distance ring of church bells. The holy chimes call to me, biding me to follow, wherever they may lead.

My legs carry me to the mouth of a cathedral. I stare up at the massive structure, with its pointed arches, ripped vaults and flying buttresses. I walk through the rounded doors into the narthex, adorned with ornate tapestries and religious artistry dating back several centuries. I continue my journey into the belly of the building, making my way down the nave as the sound of my heels tapping against the stone floor echo in the sacred silence. I settle upon one of the pews in the middle of the large space and genuflect toward the altar, before taking my seat upon the hard wood surface. I bow my head in prayer remembering the souls of my father and of Mamma Valerius. I pray for Raoul that he is safe and happy. I pray for myself, that God will grant me strength and courage, but mostly, I pray for Erik, that he might be redeemed.

Something catches the corner of my eye and I turn to see an older woman emerge from behind a set of thick green satin curtains. She smiles as she passes, then settles in a few rows behind me to offer her penance. It has been so long since I have stepped into the peaceful sanctity of a church but even longer since a priest has heard my confession. I rise and make my way to where the woman had been only moments before. I step into the confessional and pull those same satin curtains tightly across the archway shrouding myself in darkness. It is so dark, that I trip and fall, with a loud grunt, to the floor. I feel my way back up and touch the latticed opening which slides forth from the other side as I kneel before it. A faint light comes in through the slits in the screen, but only enough that I can barely make out my hands in front of me.

The rehearsed words pour forth from my lips. “Bless me father for I have sinned. It has been several months since my last confession.”

There is a slight pause, but then I hear the breathy yet brittle voice of a man far advanced in years. “My dear child, several months is a long time to be without God’s grace.”

“Forgive me Father, but it could not be helped.”

“Nothing should keep you from seeking the Lord’s forgiveness.” He pauses for a moment. “Unless, you believe yourself to be without sin.”

His accusation wounds me. “Oh no Father, you are mistaken. I wanted to come, truly I did, but certain circumstances prevented it. That is why I am here now.”

He does not answer for a time as a series of racking coughs fill the silence. “What is your name my child,” he asks in a raspy voice.

“Christine.”

“You bare the name of our lord,” he says with an air of approval. “Your parents named you well.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Tell me, what sins do you have to confess, Christine?” For some unknown reason, I suddenly feel nervous.

“I have missed Sunday Mass,” I say in a whisper, hoping he will not judge me too harshly.

“I see. You are aware that is a mortal sin.”

“Yes Father, but,” I pause, not quite sure what to say.

“Go on my child,” he coaxes me.

“It’s just…It could not be helped.”

“Hmm, you seem to be full of the same excuses child.”

“Father, I wanted to attend, truly I did but I couldn’t…”

“Couldn’t what, Christine?”

“He wouldn’t let me,” I cry out in frustration.

“Of whom do you speak, my child?”

“Erik,” I whisper, no longer wanting to carry these secrets inside of me.

“Tell me, how has this Erik kept you from worshiping our Lord on the sabbath day and from partaking in the sacred sacrament of penance?”

I close my eyes and release a breath. “I cannot speak of him Father.”

“My child, there can be no secrets between you and our Lord.”

I am caught between wanting to unburden myself of the misery Erik has caused and wanting to protect him. “Erik is an enigma,” I reply carefully. “There was a time when he filled me with nothing but horror.”

“Horror, Christine?”

“Erik is terribly deformed, Father. He has been despised and mistreated because of his appearance all his life. Initially, I too was fearful of his face, but it no longer holds any horror for me. It is his soul that frightens me.”

“What do you know of this man’s soul, Christine,” he asks in slight distain.

“Father he has done terrible things, monstrous things, to many people, including me.” Several rasping coughs issue forth from the other side of the confessional but soon he is speaking again.

“What sins has this Erik committed against you?”

“He has deceived me several times Father, and taken away my freedoms.”

“And yet here you are, free to visit this cathedral. You seem so sure that Erik is the liar but perhaps it is you my child that lie.”

“Father, please, I speak only the truth. He has done things that are unforgivable.”

Another cough echoes into the dark void and then comes the sharp click of a tongue. “You are so judgmental Christine and yet so brazen to come here before the Lord seeking His forgiveness but refusing to forgive poor Erik his sins.” Anger begins to well up inside my chest, but I do not object. I remain as silent as the grave enduring his attack on my character as a second penance.

“It is written, whoever says he is the light and hates his brother is still in darkness. Be wary Christine, for the Lord does not look favorably upon hypocrites.”

My anger bubbles over and I can no longer remain quiet. “You are mistaken Father,” I cry out. “I have seen his madness with my own eyes!”

“We are all a little mad Christine,” he snickers, as another dry hacking cough emanates from the space behind the screen.

“Father,” I say questioningly, ignoring the growing state of alarm that has been building in the pit of my stomach since I stepped into the confessional.

“Why do you stay with him Christine, if this Erik treats you so poorly?”

“I do not have a choice Father. He has bound me to him in the name of love and is desperate for my love in return. It pains me deeply to think of how lonely he has been all these years.”

“You are too kind my child, to pity this Erik, who is so clearly a monster in your eyes.” I notice a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

I let out a deep sigh of frustration. “I never said he was a monster, only that his actions were monstrous.” I close my eyes and place my head in my hands. “I want to help him Father, but I am frightened.”

“Little Christine, so lost, so helpless, tell me, what are you so afraid of child?”

I dare not answer, for to speak the words out loud, even within the sanctity of these walls, would utterly destroy me.

“Well, since you clearly refuse to acknowledge my question, let us move on,” he says coldly. “What other sins do you wish to confess today Christine?”

Part of me wants to offer up something innocuous to avoid further discomfort but I want to make an honest confession. “Sometimes I have impure thoughts,” I whisper.

“Explain, Christine.”

I furrow my brow. “Excuse me Father, but I do not understand.”

“There are many types of impure thoughts my child. Some are violent while others are of a more intimate nature. Which ones are these?”

“They are not violent ones Father,” I admit sheepishly, as a warmth blooms in my cheeks.

“Hmmm and what do you think about specifically Christine?”

“Father please do not ask me that,” I beg. The warmth in my face intensifies and I am grateful he is unable to see me.

“My child, I cannot grant you absolution unless you make a full confession.” His voice is soft, tender and suddenly my growing embarrassment is replaced by this overwhelming need to divulge my deepest darkest secrets.

“I think of being touched,” I reply, the words flowing like water from my lips.

“Where Christine?”

For a moment, I remember myself and the shame returns. “I would rather not say, Father.”

“Christine, my time is precious. You will either make a full confession or leave here in sin. The choice is yours,” he states with finality.

His ultimatum forces me to answer before I can process anything else. “I think of being touched on my neck and at the hallow of my throat.”

“Go on my child,” he says in a husky voice, so different from when he first spoke to me.

“My, breasts,” I stammer, my chest tight with panic.

“Yes, please continue, he begs almost desperately.

“Between my legs,” I admit shamefully.

“I see,” he says and it sounds as if he is breathless.

“You must think me terribly wanton. Sometimes I worry there is something wrong with me.”

“Wrong with you? That my child, is impossible.”

“But how could you know that for certain Father?”

“I know it because God made you and he rarely makes imperfect things.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Christine, have you ever touched yourself, in those places you just mentioned.”

“No Father. Never,” I admit hastily. What he must think of me to ask such a question!

“But you have wanted to. Haven’t you Christine.”

The softness of his voice overwhelms me again. “Yes,” I admit, staring forward, my eyes heavy, my tongue freed from its prison. “Especially when I think of his hands moving over my body.”

“Hmmm, his hands? Do you have a suitor my child? Perhaps a handsome aristocrat that has promised himself to you?”

“I am promised to Erik. I wear his ring.” My voice sounds foreign to my ears.

“I see, but surely there have been other men who have asked for your hand?”

“I was promised to another, several months ago.”

“Did you love him Christine?”

“Yes, I loved him. I have known him all my life.”

“And the hands you speak of, that caress your body so intimately in your thoughts, they belong to this boy.” It wasn’t a question.

I wanted to agree, to pretend it was true, but my head was fuzzy, my mouth like paper, crumbling under the weight of the lie. “They are not the boy’s hands Father. ”

“If not your boy’s hands, then whose Christine?”

“They are Erik’s hands,” I reply easily, hypnotically.

Suddenly, a low and painful moan emanates from the other side, followed by the the faint outline of long boney fingers, of nails digging, and fingertips clawing at the latticed opening in a frenzy.

In my dreamlike state, I hear a familiar voice call out to me “Chris-tine, Chris-tine.” I reach out blindly laying my trembling palm against the screen, wanting desperately for those fingers to entwine with mine.

“Erik,” I whisper, tentatively, questioningly, but as soon as his name leaves my lips, the hand disappears. I remain there dazed and confused for a few moments, blinking into the darkness, until the fog begins to lift from my mind. Immediately, I leap to my feet, ripping back the curtains in a fit of madness. The light is blinding as I step out of the confessional, and I feel as though I’m finally awakening from a deep sleep. As I come back to myself, anger and fear consume me. I stagger over to the other side of the confessional box, breathing heavily, my hands balled into fists at my side.

“Show yourself Erik,” I demand loudly, my voice bouncing off the walls of the cathedral. I ignore the stares and quiet murmurs coming from behind me. Suddenly the curtain shifts and out steps a short portly man, clothed in the sacred vestments reserved for hearing confession. He sputters and coughs but then addresses me, his voice raspy and hoarse.

“My child, is something wrong?”

“Father, please I must know, was someone in there with you just now.”

His face is bright red and his bloodshot eyes stare back at mine in confusion. “The sacrament of confession is only between the sinner, the priest and our Lord. There was no one else.”

I worry my lip as tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “Are you certain Father?”

He casually reaches up to rub the side of his neck. “There was no one, I assure you.”

I am trembling and unconsciously wrap my arms tightly around my body. He approaches me cautiously and places a hand on my forearm. It is warm and comforting, like a father’s touch should be.

“Dear child, you must calm down. You look as if you have just seen a ghost.”

I laugh mirthlessly, “It would not be the first time Father.”

“Perhaps it is best for you to return home. Shall I call someone to come and fetch you?”

“No, I will find my own way home.” He nods and as I turn to leave, he calls me back.

“Mademoiselle,” he pauses, confusion still etched across his face, his hand still rubbing that same side of his neck. “I shall pray for you.”

I release a shaky breath. “I believe I may need more than prayers, Father.”

I do not wait on his reply. Instead, I swiftly head for the door, my mind a muddled mess of racing thoughts. It is not until I step out into the cool fresh air again that my mind seems to quiet and the only thought I am left with is that perhaps God has abandoned me too.

**********************************************************************************  
After the events that transpired in the Cathedral, I am in no rush to return to the house and face Erik. I am filled with conflicting emotions. Part of me wants to rage at him for once again manipulating me, while the other worries that I have simply lost my mind and none of what occurred was real. It does not help that I have no evidence to prove that he was actually there.

I follow the path back into town to wonder through the marketplace. The aroma of freshly baked bread makes me hungry and I walk to the center of the market to purchase a baguette. As I wait for my turn to pay, I observe a young mother holding a small child. His plump cheeks are wet with tears as he squirms in her arms trying to reach for an apple. She speaks softly to him, then wipes his tears away before retrieving one of the apples and handing it to him. The boy smiles at her and she bends over to place a gentle kiss on his forehead head. It’s a simple scene but it fills me with a deep nostalgia as memories of my childhood come flooding back to me. I think of my father again, how he always made me feel loved. I look back at the little boy one more time, eating his apple contentedly and I smile.

I pay for my baguette and as I’m about to leave I hear someone calling my name. I freeze in place, unable to move. I know that voice! My heart pounds in my chest, my breathing constricts and tears begin to form at the corners of my eyes. Suddenly, a warm hand wraps around my forearm and when I turn around, I’m met with a pair of ice blue eyes staring at me in disbelief.

“Raoul,” I whisper, as the baguette I am holding slides from my trembling hand onto the floor and everything goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Although the ending of this chapter was a scene I had in my head from the beginning, this was a difficult chapter to write and ended up being much longer and a bit different than what I originally had planned. Please read and review. I would love to hear your thoughts! 
> 
> Up next: Raoul and Christine have a very important conversation.


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